The Walker in the Wild
by KittiWithKatana
Summary: In the world of Tyria, in the deeps of the Shiverpeak Mountains, lives a family cursed to repeat history over and over. Follow the exploits of three sisters from their earliest beginnings as they attempt to right the wrongs handed down to them by their predecessors.
1. The night of the long claw

_Prelude:_

_Olaf_

_Season of the Colossus - 1303 AE_

There was the sound of wings, the cold of death, and a terrible scream. He had flung himself from the warmth of the furs he shared with his mate. His head ached with the aftermath of the ale he had consumed that evening. He was as naked as his name day, having spent the evening with his mate after a long hunt. He made desperately for the greatsword he kept at the foot of their bed nest, hands touching nothing but an empty scabbard. His eyes flew desperately to that of his mate, Gylda. Her pale green orbs were wide and bright, already in her hands were her twin daggers, Splinter and Sliver. She had thrown on a long leather cloak to hide her nudity as she rushed to the curtain separating their sleeping area from the rest of the homestead.

"Aliana!" she called to their infant child, her voice hoarse with worry.

She flung the leather division aside and then stood horror struck in the doorway, all the while he fumbled to put on a pair of leathers. Her hand rested on the roughhewn wooden doorjamb, fingers clutching at its carved wooden surface. Her body was still as the sight of whatever was in the room beyond their sleeping area was too much to comprehend. His leathers in place, Olaf made towards his mate. He touched her shoulder before moving ahead of her into the darkness of the hearthstead. With a whispered word and a glide movement of her hand, Gylda reignited the flames in the huge fire pit at the center of the room. He was momentarily blinded by the light; it wasn't often that Gylda used her elementalist powers, believing that they gave her an unfair advantage.

A blood covered infant wondered the cavernous chamber with a dead owl clutched in its arms, its eyes glazed and seeing into a world beyond the one he saw. Its skin shone wanly in the light of the hearth, firelight blazed off of the deep teal of its hair as it walked slow stumbling steps about the room trailing bloodied footprints. It turned towards him. His heart stopped as Gylda let out a silent scream, hands clutching at her heart. He panicked. Thinking it was an apparition sent by Jormag he made for his greatsword leaning against the door to their room. It was only Gylda's love and fast reflexes that saved the thing.

He was wild, his bear burst from his skin as he attempted to destroy the glaze eyed thing that inhabited his firstborns body. For each swipe he made at it, Gylda counted with her own, two painted daggers clutched in her hands, dancing to intercept his massive claws. Always she kept her body between him and their child. Their child that stood motionless behind her, face bloodless and staring, the pale green of its eyes as empty as a doll. The more he looked at it, the madder he got. An endless litany played through his head.

_"How dare he?! How dare he?! How dare he?! How dare he?! How dare he?! How dare he?! Howdare he toy with what is **mine!**"_

Gylda became desperate as his roaring grew; her dancing fighting style became more direct. She no longer attempted to hold him at bay; instead she frantically fought to disable him.

His claws and fur grew slick with his blood and hers, he had cut her in a dozen places, but for every tear he made on her flesh, she made a dozen on his. Slowly, as they fought on, he grew weaker as his lifeblood bled out. Gylda was relentless. She said nothing, did nothing, except continuously put herself in the way of him and the demon child. His bear knew his mate, knew her scent, but in its frenzy flew continuously to destroy the threat to his hearth. She was bleeding heavily; his claws had torn her flesh, ripped through the leather robe she had on. Her pale green eyes were focused on him with terrible purpose; the fire red of her hair was slick with blood and sweat. The bloodied child was behind her, it had her mother's eyes, except where Gylda's held life and purpose hers were blank and lifeless. As they fought on he weakened. Gylda fought with precision and grace, continuously cutting, but not enough to cause serious harm. Her dancing daggers sliced and spun and sliced again, always going for weak points, points that would bleed. He lunged and fought and bled, but he could never get between her and the child. Soon the edges of the room grew dim; darkness grew at the edge of his vision as his anger began to fade. His mate glowed like a beacon in the darkening room, her hair like fire in the flickering light of the hearth, her skin, sun kissed and nut brown, glowing with life. Finally he could hold himself up no longer. He fell to his knees and then to the floor, his muzzle hitting the cold flagstones. He turned his bloodied maw to see his woman and what once was their child. The anger in him flowed out with his lifeblood; slowly bear's spirit began to melt off of him, allowing him to take his Norn form once more.

From his vantage point on the floor he saw Gylda drop her twin daggers and lift the thing wearing his child's flesh in her bloodied arms, dead owl and all. She then limped to the door that he had made for their day of promising, a Norn mating ritual, where they promised to forsake all others and join only with each other.

"Shhh," she whispered to the thing in her arms, though it made no sound.

"Shush my little one, mama is here now." She whispered in its ear, putting its head in the crook of her neck, gently running her hand through hair that once was the colour of fire, but now glinted deep teal like the frost of Jormag's cursed ice.

Olaf wanted to scream, wanted to throw himself at the creature and tear it limb from limb, and above all he wanted to protect his mate from the thing that inhabited his once smiling child, his young one who had hair the colour of fire and eyes of green forests. His child that had Gylda's face and his pointed ears, which had the promise of his height, but was more likely to inherit her mother's temperament.

He tried desperately to tell Gylda to leave the thing, to step away from it, to put it outside in the snow and let nature take its course. The only sound he could produce was a gurgle, as he choked on the blood filling his mouth.

Her hand touched the wooden handle, her fingers fitting easily in its machinations, with a heave she pulled it open one handed. From his vantage on the floor he could see the carvings of bear, leopard, raven, and wolf in the flickering light. They looked alive in the movement of light and shadow. He had carved them himself onto the wood of the door. He had made it as a promise to Gylda, a promise that he would keep the cold from their hearth, a promise that their house would forever be a haven for the spirits of the wild. Now she stood, her back to him, child firmly held in her arms, staring into the dark of night. Snow drifted silently about her feet as the light of the moon glinted off the red of her hair, turning its sweat and blood soaked mass into a living thing. She turned her face towards him, smiled, and then walked out into the darkness of the night, closing the door behind her. With the echo of its closing, the flames of the fire dimmed then slowly ebbed away, leaving him in darkness.


	2. The Dead of Night

_Gylda_

_Season of the Colossus - 1303 AE_

Her body ached, her muscles spasimed and her feet burned where she trod through ice and snow. In her arms, Aliana remained still, if it wasn't for the shuddering breath at her ear, Gylda would believe her child to be dead. Her heart ached at the thought. The women in her family had long been cursed to only have one child, and with Aliana's death, her family, her line would end. But more than that was the knowledge that she could let nothing happen to the sweet child in her arms, a child that had bought love and laughter to a hearth where long there had been none.

She hitched Aliana higher in her arms, tightened her grip on the still child. A putrid scent wafted up from the dead owl that Aliana still clutched in her arms and Gylda was forced to turn her face from the scent.

"Oh baby," she exhaled, "the things you find."

She kissed the top of her head, feeling cold radiating from the small gesture. She bought her hand up to hold Aliana's small head and body closer to her own, tears welling up in her eyes. She tried to speed up her pace, but a wound inflicted by her rage filled mate prevented her from achieving the speed she knew she so desperately needed. Every breath she took was agony, where Aliana was pressed against her chest she knew that she had at least three broken ribs. She knew she couldn't focus on the pain, that if she did she would tumble over and not get up and her cargo was too precious to allow for that. With that in mind she focused every thought, every step solely on reaching her destination.

Her options were few. She couldn't take Aliana to her neighbours at Edenvar's Homestead, knowing that they would react to Aliana much the same way her mate did. She couldn't use the waypoints, not knowing how they would react to the changes Aliana displayed. Her only hope lay with the cantankerous Havroun of Raven. As a necromancer it would be in his power to see and do things that the other Havroun would fear. She took a deep breath, focused on the monotony of walking, and took her bearings from the moon and trees. She headed south, to Heart of the Raven, where she knew that she would be able to find an apprentice of raven, if not the great Weibe himself.

While clear, the night was colder than usual, the moon shone brightly and the landscape was vast and covered in a thick layer of snow. Every now and again, Gylda could hear the explosive bleating of Minotaur as they communicated across the great expanse. Even more fearsome were the Jotan who had taken residence in nearby hills. Gylda prayed to Wolf that they would not sense their passing, she knew that if she passed too close and they caught little Aliana's scent, they would not hesitate to destroy them. She wished she had had time to put on a pair of shoes before leaving, the snow and ice froze her feet and slowed her down as she purposefully made her way through the snow.

Briefly, she turned and looked distantly at the homestead she had called home for the last four winters. She and Olaf had been happy the first 6 months of their union, but like most Norn males the wild had called to him. It had called to him in a way it would never call to her. So he had left. He wondered the paths of the wild, and, when the feeling took him he came home and acted as if the months he had spent away were nothing. He would love her and make love to her, but inevitably the wild would call to him again, and he would leave. The wild never held that call for her, nor any female of her line. Not since two hundred and fifty years ago a young human woman had stumbled into Sifhalla's Great Lodge and stole the heart of Burik the Hunter. Silently Gylda cursed her erstwhile ancestor. She who had cursed every female in her line, she who had created a calamity so huge, and left a responsibility so massive, that the women in her family had kept their association with her a closely guarded secret. From her, Gylda had inherited her fiery locks, her slight height for a Norn, and the curse of only having one child. Once, when the knowledge of her fate became too heavy she had asked her mother's mother the reason why there was only ever one child. Alia told her it was because carrying a Norn babe was too much for the small human, and that when her daughter took her first breath, she took her last. From that point on the curse was set; one girl child was born per generation. Mother, grandmother, great grandmother, these were the women of her family. They lived longer than most Norn, not having the same wanderlust and hankering for glory as their counterparts. Her great grandmother was not sure how old she was, but she could remember being a babe on her mother's back fleeing their home at Sifhalla. Her grandmother, Alia, thought she was born around the time that Zhaitan rose from the depths.

Now, in the pale moonlight, clinging to a child that had been taken by something so unthinkingly other, aching from head to foot from wounds inflicted on her by the one person she thought she could trust to keep her safe, now, Gylda thought of home. Of the smell of varnish and freshly felled trees, the warmth of Olaf's back as she snuggled up against it in sleep, the clear well that was fed from the nearby Shadowhorn springs. She remembered all these things as she stared back at her home, now so distant from her. The child in her arms motionless and lost, skin clammy and cold to the touch. It was then Gylda made up her mind; wounded as she was she would never make it to Ravens shrine, and even if she did, there was precious little the Havroun would be able to do with her child save give it safe passage into the Mists. She adjusted the little one in her arms, moving her from her side to her chest, then like when she was a child, she flopped backwards onto the snow. She wrapped her shivering arms around the blood soaked child, suffered another gust of decaying flesh from the owl, then staring up at the glory of the night sky, and began to sing the naming song. She didn't think she would remember all the words, but now, with death so close that it was breathing down her neck, she remembered and sang of the spirits and their true names and nature. Her voice was hoarse and broken, but in her arms Aliana relaxed as the melody engulfed her. It was a song so old it was forgotten by all Norn born after the exodus. Alia had taught it to her once while she lay with her head on her lap. With the song came the memory of Alia's house, of her soft hands and the smell of wood smoke. Now, lying in the snow waiting for deaths last handshake, caressing the hair of her only child, singing the song, now for the first time since she left her father's hearth, Gylda felt peace.

"That was lovely," said a voice, "I wonder where you heard it, I can't say I've heard that variation before and I thought I had heard them all… Why are you lying in the snow?"

"It seemed like a good place to lie," breathed Gylda, her hands rubbing up and down Aliana's back. She felt a slight thud and saw a puff of snow wafting in the air. Gylda watched it for a moment, and then closed her eyes. She focused on the sound of her breathing and that of Aliana. The night was cold and already her body was wracked with shivers. Concentrating on the simple act of breathing, she slowly shut down systems she wouldn't need. Legs, too painful, arms, needed to keep Aliana warm, head, needed to control the system, chest, focus on the lung that worked. Slowly she worked her way through her body, exercising mental and physical restraint.

"That's bloody marvelous" said the voice, "I can barely feel your life force. Where on earth does a Norn learn a skill like that?"

It laughed explosively, the sound was grating. It bounced off of the surrounding mountains and echoed in the stillness of the night, a nearby herd of Minotaur were awakened and frightened by the suddenness of it. Gylda heard their bleating of surprise and felt the earth shake as they stampeded near where they lay.

Gylda turned her face slightly to the left and opened her eyes to stare into a pair so pale they were almost white, they glowed with a slight luminescence, leaving a trail of light as it moved its head to gain a comfortable position on the hand it leaned on. The face they occupied was entirely unremarkable, it was neither young nor old, neither male nor female, and, with the exception of the eyes, completely Norn.

"I was wondering when you would come see me" she exhaled.

It chuckled, the sound reverberating deeply in its chest, and rubbed its sharply callused hand across its jaw. Vaguely, Gylda noticed that it had no hair on its body; both head and form were completely free of it.

"It's not every day that a scion of that woman allow themself to get so close to death" It chuckled. "And to get two, it must be Wintersday!"

It ran its hand up Aliana's back, stopping to caress the soft teal tresses of her hair. Gylda snapped her hand up and grasped its wrist. Where her hand touched she burned. Ice as cold as the coldest winter's night filled her fingers, rendering her hand numb. She could feel it spreading slowly up her arm towards her heart. She locked eyes with the thing, the pale green of her orbs meeting its unnatural ones.

"I am near enough to death", she said, and "What is it you want?"

"An age ago a young hunter from Sifhalla called to me." It said, "I must admit, at the time I was surprised, not many know of my existence, and even then the number who knew of me where limited to the Havroun."

Absently it broke her grip on its arm and ran its hands up and down Aliana's back, its caress soft enough as not to disturb her rest. Though Gylda would not admit it, the weight of her child was causing her great pain, and the cold of it had alleviated some of the agony that burned through her. As she listened to it, the world began to grow dim; the pain in her limbs was slowly beginning to ease. Shock, she knew. Instead of worrying about her impending demise, she focused on the creature, listening intently as it continued its story.

"He was desperate, however, and so he performed ritual, and begged an audience." It chuckled once more. "I must admit, the only reason I allowed it was my curiosity, and so I allowed myself to be called."

It paused, pressing together lips that were neither thick nor thin. It bought hairless brows together in a frown, the luminescence of its eyes dimming. In the night, a Minotaur let out a scream as something dark and dangerous stalked it. Gylda knew if it wasn't for the Watcher, the creatures of the night would be upon them in an instant.

"What I saw, I was glad never to see again. You see, this hunter, this young boorish fool, had fallen in love with a human and impregnated her. Something I thought I would never witness in my long life. Humans and Norn are incompatible. Both may be humanoid, but physically… Well, the differences are vast. And so I came to this young hunters call and saw a female swollen with pregnancy, the child within fighting to get out, bruising and breaking her bones. Her body had been sucked dry of nutrient, and her limbs were like twigs. One touch of my hand and they would have broken." It sighed, "I must admit I was furious."

It said this without inflection, as if it meant nothing. Gylda knew, however, that the anger of a thing such as this must be terrible to behold. She licked her lips, felt their roughness, and asked;

"What then?"

"I attempted to destroy her much like your mate attempted to destroy your whelp."

"Obviously you failed."

"Obviously I did."

Its hand moved to her, its fingers were ice where they touched her; first it ran its hand down one arm then up the other. Gylda was too weak to fight it and instead lay still, waiting for it to finish its story. It bought its hand to her hair, touching the mangled mess of it.

"It looks like blood on newly formed snow." It whispered, "Beautiful."

It focused its eyes on the movement of its hand through her tresses, attempting to untangle the red mass.

"Your many times removed mother had hair like this, it glowed like fire where every other part of her had fallen to decay. You inherited both her eyes and hair, colouring I have not seen in three generations of your family line."

"You attempted to destroy her…" Gylda prodded, trying to get this strange creature to come to the point. It bought its attention back to her, its exceedingly androgynous face focused entirely on hers.

"Mother Owl intervened."

"And?" she urged, wanting it to finish its story, she didn't have long in this world. She needed to aid Aliana into the Mists before she left it.

"I should have known the young hunter would have called upon her as well, how else would he have known of my existence?"

It collapsed back onto the powdery snow and stared at the majesty of the night sky. Stars burned brightly about them in a sky that was clear and bright, the moon shone like a beacon reflecting off of the snow and giving everything an eerie glow. Her companion lay like this for a moment before continuing its story.

"Look at her soul, said Mother Owl, see how it glows'." said the Watcher, "So I did."

The Watcher bought his hand up and scratched its nose. Gylda's field of vision faded; slowly the lights of the stars began to go out one by one. Her arms, where it had touched them, had become so numb she could not move them. Wrapped as they were about Aliana, she could feel the breath of her daughter becoming slower. The dead owl pressed uncomfortably between them.

"It burned." it said "Its light was all encompassing. In the second it took me to see it, I saw all that she had accomplished, both good and bad. The Searing, which forced her to become who she became, the sinking of Orr… She faced Shiro Tagachi in Cantha and helped do away with the Afflicted, she was there to bear witness to the Rise and Fall of Abaddon, to aid in the ascension of Kormir to godhood, and as payment for that privilege she allowed something terribly evil to exist in the world, though she did not live long enough to view the consequence of that action. She then travelled to the Shiverpeaks where I think she sought solace, or perhaps the fallen ruler that she helped aid when she left her home the first time. Whatever her reason, she found no peace here. Instead she became embroiled in the affairs of the Dwarves as they sought to vanquish the Great Destroyer, their enemy of old. She met the centaur Ventari, and was one of the few to see the Pale Tree as nothing but a sprout. She got entangled in the battles of the Ebon Vanguard and found that not all Charr were evil oppressors. She met and aided Jora when her brother became entangled in the dark forces created by Jormag. She was one of the first humans to become involved with the tricky Asura. And finally she aided the Dwarves in their ritual to destroy Primordus when he began to stir in the deep places. All of this she did in her short lifespan. One small human had had more adventure and had a greater legend than any I had ever seen. 'Do you see?' asked Mother Owl, 'Do you understand why this human can't just die, can you imagine if she would pass this spirit to her child? What she would achieve? Long you have wondered the Wilds, alone and without a companion. With this child perhaps you will find what you have long sought.'" It took a deep breath, scrubbed its hand across its face, and said; "I will admit I was conflicted."

It turned once more onto its side, rested its head on its hand and watched Gylda with those faintly glowing eyes. Her breath was low and shallow; in her arms Aliana hardly drew breath herself. Absently she thought how strange it was that she would die like this, in the company of this thing. It smiled at her, showing teeth that were even and clean, its incisors slightly longer than normal, but otherwise beatific.

"It was Mother Owl who convinced me. She was always a speaker of truth, the mother of wisdom, a mother to us all really. So I offered the human a deal. I would save her child's life, but not hers. I would allow its existence, but not protect it. I explained briefly (very briefly as she was dying much like you are.) that her child would be an abomination. That besides Mother Owl she would never be accepted by the other Spirits. Even in Grenths embrace your many times mother was brave. She agreed to our bargain, allowing me to consume her life force and birth the young one into the world. The young hunter protested loudly only to be silenced by Owl. So it came about that on her child's first breath, that woman took her last. Thus the only surviving human/Norn hybrid was born. The hunter named her Mika; she had hair of fire and eyes of green meadows. I watched her grow, saw the caution she always had in lingering in her eyes, saw the spirit she inherited from her mother and the strength she inherited from her father. It came about that she took a mate, a Norn of extraordinary strength and power; from him she had your great grandmother. Shortly after your great grandmother was born a chance was given to display the spirit of her mother, to see if she had inherited her tenacity and strength of will. Jormag rose from northern reaches of the Shiverpeak Mountains, his coming forever changing Tyria. The Norn rejoiced in his rising, believing that they would easily conquer this foe. As usual, they chose to face him alone, as solitary hunters, instead of the fearsome army they could be. Mika watched her brethren seek their glory and instead of listening to the singing of her Norn blood, she chose the path a human would take; instead of facing the beast as I expected, Mika chose to flee. She left her mate and his family to the Elder Dragon and went south, stopping only when she could no longer hear the destruction wrought by the elder dragon. I must admit, I was very disappointed."

The Watcher sighed loudly, a gust of frigid air blew into her face, its breath smelt of forests and lakes, of places unexplored and those found, it smelt of caves and dark places. She bought her death glazed eyes to its, staring into them as only someone on their last could stare.

"You didn't kill her though." She whispered - her voice an imitation of what it had been. The blood that had seeped from her wounds spread in a frozen puddle around her.

"No. I didn't. Although I was sorely tempted to. It was Mother Owl who cautioned me against it. It is my one regret that I did not foresee her sacrifice. Had I known it would be the last time I would see Owl, I would have asked her more. I would have asked her what promise she could see in this poor excuse for a Norn. It wasn't long after we spoke that she was swallowed by the Elder Dragon in an attempt to save the rest of the Norn. Mika met the survivors when they came from the north. They were broken, their spirits crushed. Her mate did not return. When she saw they were settled in the hollow that became Hoelbrak she gifted her child to an apprentice of Wolf and took her life shortly after. So I took my gaze from her and instead focused on your great grandmother, who had hair as golden as sunlight, and eyes the colour of leaves in autumn. While she did not inherit her grandmother's spirit or her father's strength, she was wild. She had a lust for adventure that was unquenchable, unseen I followed her as she plundered her way through Tyria. She strayed from the wild paths, choosing instead the ocean and its depths. While on shore leave she became pregnant with Alia, your grandmother. Her father is unknown to anyone save I. Alia used to toddle around the deck while her mother blustered and threatened her crew into order. Alia inherited her coloring from her father and had hair and eyes as black as a Raven's wing, her skin was kissed by the sun and as brown as a nut. She was your great grandmother's pride and joy, and ultimately her weakness. When Zhaitan rose from the depths your great grandmothers eyes glowed with a lust for destruction I hadn't seen in a generation. Finally, I thought, a Norn worthy of me. She was ready, she would take Zhaitan by the teeth, and he would never see her coming. "

"What happened?"

"Alia." It said, its hand rhythmically clenching and unclenching. "When your great grandmother saw the magnitude of Zhaitans reach, she feared for her child. So instead of facing him like she sorely desired, she chose to forsake the sea."

The Watcher's turned its gaze to her and stared into her green orbs; she was blind, seeing nothing but their shining luminescence. Aliana's breath hitched once, then stilled in her arms. It placed its hand on her head, ran it through her teal tresses, and then pumped a surge of power into her. She resumed breathing once more, but each breath she took was shallow and weak.

"Alia was more of a disappointment. She never left the hearth her mother built. She was studious and walked the path of a shaman even though she was never formally accepted by any of the Spirits of the Wild; she stunk of human despite how she looked. Your mother followed her mother in her trade, and I despaired because the wanderlust, the thirst for adventure, was gone. Twice the women before you had the opportunity to change the world, and twice they chose to run from their destiny, their fate. That woman took every opportunity she was ever given, she helped any who asked for it, never once taking into account the harm it would cause her. In her last hour, as I drained her of her essence, still she fought against me. She was stronger than any I had ever encountered. Her will was absolute. Had she been a Norn, I would never have bothered waiting on your runty lineage to produce something similar… "

It paused, clearly upset. For a while it was silent as it contemplated the woman and child before it. Both a breath away from entering the Mists, Gylda was as still as a corpse and just as pale. Her sun kissed skin had lost its colour leaving her looking like an abandoned doll. A frozen pool of blood surrounded her, it soaked into her hair and stained her skin red where it touched her, her pale green eyes were glazed and had the sheen of death in their depths. If not for the rhythmic movement of her hand on Aliana's back, it would think she had left this world.

"That's when you were born. The first thing I saw of you was your hair, blood red and whisping about your head like an angry cloud. You screamed and brawled and occasionally set fire to the house. You gave me hope, hope that maybe; finally, there might be a Norn with the same spirit as that woman." It sighed. "Again I was disappointed. You were the first in your family to be able to work elemental forces, but chose to hide that skill as if it were a dark secret, something to be ashamed of. Instead of the life of adventure you clearly yearned from a young age, you suppressed your desire, and chose a life of solitude. Only the blustering and begging of that fool Norn you call a mate took you from your home. But by then whatever spark you had as a child was long extinguished."

It touched Aliana's back, gently caressing its cold surface.

"She showed the same promise. I promised myself that this time I would be more proactive, that I would steal her away from you if I had to. That I would take that spark and nurture it into a flame, an inferno. But I was too late. The thing that holds your daughter's soul is too dear for me to intervene. Even now I couldn't save her, even if I wanted to, and believe me, I want to."

Gylda's unseeing eyes glanced its way, looking and finding confirmation of its statement. she drew a sharp breath, if it couldn't save her child then nothing in this world could. The Watcher moved his hand along Aliana's back, then stilled over where Gylda's stomach would be. She felt the cold of its touch through her child's still body and on her very flesh.

"Hope is not lost just yet." It said, a smile twisting its mouth in a pantomime. "Tonight you lay with your mate. The curse takes a day to set in. Already two lives are beginning to form within you. Now I must ask you Gylda Thillian of the Sunspear Lodge… Would you like to make a deal?"


	3. And time went on

_Olaf_

_Season of the Phoenix - 1304 AE_

It started with a tap on the window. A sound so soft it hardly bore attention and was soon swallowed in the noises of the lodge. Visitors and drunkards alike lay sprawled across the floor, loudly arguing in dark corners of the lodge, or, as was most often the case; brawling. The lodge itself smelt of unwashed bodies and the bitter tang of vomit. Furniture was sprawled about without care and the tapestries, once the envy of the Halvault Snowfields, were heaped in corners, silently developing mold and fungi. The carving work that Olaf was so proud of, that Gylda loved, was scratched and defiled, pitted with the markings of axe and claw. The door that Olaf had so lovingly made, replaced by a simple one made of pine. The original long gone, fed to a fire in a rage. A gentle susurration of drunken voices filled the cavernous room with its rambunctions. Missing from its occupants was the host to this sordid affair.

Olaf lay hangover in the bed of furs he once shared with his mate. His head ached as the pleasures of last night's adventure presented their bill. Absently he scratched the scar bisecting his abdomen with the thick fingers of his right hand, his left looking in vain for the warm body of his mate. He slit his eyes then opened them, staring up at the ceiling above him. The clamoring from behind the curtain that led to the lodge making his already throbbing head ache the more. As always the case, the mornings were the worst time of day for Olaf. In the mornings, just before he rose from his bed and made good with his ale, when his eyes were still tightly pressed together and his body warm from the furs he piled over himself, then and only then could he convince himself that that terrible night never happened. He could convince himself that instead of a pillow it was Gylda pressed tightly in his arms and that little Aliana would soon be up and jumping on their bed to wake them. Then he would open his eyes and the world would reassert itself. Gylda was gone and Aliana was worse than gone. He was alone in the world.

So he attempted to fill the void left by their disappearance. Every night was a celebration at Sunspear Lodge, and every night he would drink and be merry. He would drink and drink until he could not stand and anyone with red hair became Gylda. His eccentricities became known throughout the Wayfarer Foothills. His door was open to anyone who came and he was very generous with his food and ale. Before entering, however, travelers with red hair were often warned to cover their locks, as depending on Olaf's mood, he could be affectionate, apologetic, or murderous. On good nights he stayed in the lodge and drank, sang, and brawled until he passed out. On bad nights, Endenvar would send Valdi into the wild to fetch him; inevitably finding him slumped near where they had last tracked Gylda. On those nights Valdi would carry him to Endenvar's lodge and Endenvar would sit long into the night listening to Olaf's lamenting.

Now in the pale light of the morning, listening to the merrymaking in the room beyond, Olaf lay motionless, his face expressionless as he listened to the sounds beyond. That is when he heard the tapping. Like a drum it echoed through his hangover mind, a thud thud thud that made his anger grow. Taking a deep breath, and swallowing the bile that rose in his throat, he hoisted himself up then sat awhile - waiting for the world to slow its eerie spin. All the while the tapping grew louder, and more violent as it spun around his skull. While fighting the churning gestations that raised his bile, he stared down to his large feet and noticed that they were once more covered with dried mud and bits of detritus from Halvault Snowfields.

He had gone looking for Gylda again last night.

He sighed and ran his hand over his face, trying desperately to rub the feeling of ineptitude that followed him like a shadow. After that night he had remained unconscious for three days before Endenvar had found him lying in a puddle of congealed blood. The wounds inflicted on him were not serious by themselves, but as a collective they rendered him useless. The story he told was that Gylda and the little one had been taken by marauding Jotan. Considering how far inland the Jotan had moved, it was an easy story to sell. The truth was a bitter pill to swallow, and none save Endenvar and perhaps Valdi knew it. Olaf was ashamed. He had loved Gylda from the first moment he saw her, standing in the shadow of the overprotective matriarchy of her family. She was small for a Norn, but had the sweetest dimples. It had taken him months to convince her that he was worthy of her. He had hunted and killed and bought many trophies to her, but she was never impressed. So he had built Sunspear Lodge. He had worked a full year, felling only the finest trees and carving all the murals. With the help of his mother he learnt the art of weaving and made all the tapestries that lined the wall. He used the pelts of the animals he killed to create rugs and throws. When he was sure it was perfect, that nothing was left to do, he bought Gylda to the hearthstead.

"Look" he had said, "If you let me I will provide. I will give you a home and a family. I will protect you and respect you. In this lodge you will forever have a home. The Spirits of the Wild will forever be welcome, and nothing shall ruin your peace here."

The words he had said rung hollow now, and the lodge was in ruins. The effect of his footloose behavior since Gylda's leaving taking a definite toll on the wooden structure. She was gone, their child was gone, and he was alone. He rubbed a callused hand across his face, attempting to remove the sleep and guilt that hung over him. Endenvar had said that it was impossible that the child would be corrupted by the dragon. In many ways he might be right, none had ever found out what happened to the woman and children taken by the dragon's minions. Endenvar, however, was not there that night. How else could he account for her glazed eyes, the blood, and atmosphere of wrongness that surrounded her like a shield? He had done what he had thought right. Looking back, however, he should have anticipated Gylda's reaction. She had loved that child from the moment she had drawn her first breath. It was love for her child that caused her to cut ties with the strict matriarchy that she grew up with. She wanted their child to find her own path in life.

He groaned, his chest heaving as he folded into himself, yet again overcome with guilt. He put his face in his hands and waited for the desolation to pass. Presently he stood. His large body unfolded itself from the cooling embrace of his bed. His bloodshot eyes scanned the room, briefly alighted on the leathers thrown about, the clutter filling its dark corners, and the dust that left a thick layer over everything that belonged to his mate. A knife stuck out from the door frame leading to his sleeping chamber, vaguely he remembered betting Valdi that he could hit a fly with it, looking about he noticed that his sanctuary was riddled with the remnants of that particular adventure. Tapestries hung lopsided on the walls, and the murals he had so carefully painted were covered in drunken graffiti of a somewhat obscene nature.

He gingerly made his way across the room, body heavy with the effects of last night's drinking, his oversized feet somehow managing to step on every piece of glass between himself and the round window that looked out onto what was once Gylda's herb garden. The tapping that was beating like a drum on his skull was originating from there. The hair on his arms and neck rose as he neared it, his heart thud thickly in his chest. Carefully he reached for one of the many weapons carefully placed around the hearthstead (Never will he be caught unawares again, he thought.) and reached for the thick woolen curtains made for them by his mother. His breath stilled as he looked out onto the tundra beyond his house momentarily struck dumb by the apparition outside his window. Blood Fiend, his mind supplied. The sword in his hand dropped with a thump that seemed to echo in his mind. Desperately he prayed that the sound would drown out the knowledge of what a Blood Fiend languishing on his windowsill meant. It didn't. He knew only one person who would send a Blood Fiend to his home. His blood ran cold and sweat broke out on his thick brow. As he watched, it raised one of the many spine like appendages that hung limply from its bulbous body, bought it to the window and tapped it with its thick bone tip. Olaf swallowed thickly.

He was being summoned.


	4. Of Lodges and Baths

_Olaf_  
><em>Season of the Phoenix - 1304 AE<em>

He ran, barely clothed and breathing heavily, he ran. He did not stop until he reached his neighbors lodge. Desperately he burst through the doorway that was always open to guests and travelers. Gasping for breath he desperately tried to explain his predicament to his old friend. After watching this for a few moments, Endenvar took pity on him and helped ease him into a sitting position on the floor and instructed him to put his head between his knees.  
>"Breathe." Endenvar said gruffly, his voice thick with worry. Olaf wasn't known to be up this early, and it had been an age since Endenvar saw him move with great purpose anywhere.<br>He rubbed Olaf's back as he slowly got his breathing under control.  
>"What brings you here so early in the morning?", he asked, his eyes roaming Olaf's shuddering frame, taking in his muddied feet and hastily thrown on leathers, and shirt that was inside out. "It looks as if Primordus himself was chasing at your heels."<br>"That isn't a bad description old friend. I had a visitor on my window ledge this morning…" Grey eyes met muddied brown. Endenvar leaned back, his face expressionless as he stared at his friend.  
>"Let me guess," He said, "Somewhat dilapidated, smelt dead, tentacles."<br>"You're not wrong."  
>Endenvar swore.<br>"I assume you told them." Endenvar asked once he had used every oath he could think of.  
>Olaf shook his head, face white as he looked up at Endenvar. He was sitting on his rump just in the doorway, to the back of the lodge a large fire was burning in the ornate hearth that Endenvar had constructed an age past. Valdi, now legally allowed to drink, was deep in his cups and trying his luck with Ginta, the local mason. From where he sat he could hear her sharp retort as she once again told him to get bent. Olaf knew from experience that it would be another minute or two before Ginta shifted her daughter Ginna to the other hip and reached for one of the heavy hammers that hung around her waist. When that happened, Olaf knew that it would be at least an hour before Valdi roused himself from the heap that Ginta would leave him in. He tried his best not to meet the eyes of his friend, knowing well what his reaction would be. Instead he focused on the intricate carving on the ornate four poster beds he had helped Endenvar create seasons past.<br>"Olaf." Endenvar's voice was gruff, his tone brooked no argument. His hand on Olaf's shoulder tightened to the point of pain. "What in Ravens glinting eyes were you thinking?!"  
>Endenvar stood up abruptly, anger radiating from his large frame as he paced to the back of the lodge and struck a pillar of one of the beds that were littered haphazardly about the lodge; the sound was like a thunderclap. Valdi and Ginta stopped arguing, their faces frozen in shock at the uncharacteristic behavior shown by the lodgemaster. He pounded against the pillar, shaking its frame until his knuckles were bruised and his anger abated. He rested his forehead against his clenched fist.<br>"Are you a dullard?" He asked Olaf, his voice carrying about the lodge, the attention of all its inhabitants, save Olaf, solely on him.  
>"Aye." He ran his thick fingers through his greying hair, head bent to the floor and eyes not meeting that of his friend.<br>"I hear it starts with a Blood Fiend," said Endenvar, "tapping against the window, and then progresses to a Bone Fiend following you in nightmare… I hear it gets worse, the longer you hold off." Endenvar was speaking to the pillar, still leaning against his hand, his eyes tightly clenched shut. "I hear that if you hold on long enough, she sends things. Things that have teeth and claw that rend and slowly eat the flesh from your bones as you watch. There are tales of her ripping the intended to shreds, then piecing them together in a pantomime of Nornhood. Do you have any idea how foolish you have been Olaf?" He asked; his voice low and gruff, "Do you have any idea how much trouble you are in?"  
>He turned to Olaf, who was still sitting on the floor. His face was grim as he looked him over. Olaf felt the sweat gathering on his back and neck and knew he looked terrible. He felt terrible. He had not been this terrified since the night Gylda left.<br>"Ginta." He called; face stony as he kept his gaze on Olaf.  
>"Endenvar?"<br>"Fetch Burrisson the Blue from Zelwchor Hot Springs, tell him that we need help cleaning up drunkard."  
>Olaf made to speak, his mouth opening and closing like a fish on land.<br>"Shut up Olaf. At least let me make you presentable for your funeral."  
>He walked up to his old friend, reached out to him and helped him to his feet. His knuckles were bruised from his rage filled attack on the pillar, but they were still full of strength were they gripped Olaf's. When he stood Endenvar didn't immediately let go of Olaf, instead he squeezed his hands and said;<br>"This, all of this, could have been avoided should you have gone to them in the first place."  
>"I know old friend. I know. Honestly though, I would rather face Jormag naked and with a toothpick than have to deal with <em>them<em>." He shuddered for emphasis.  
>Endenvar let out a bark of laughter.<br>"I can't say I blame you, but how do you think they are going to react when they hear what you have done? Do they know about Aliana?"  
>"I think that Gylda had cut all ties with them before she became pregnant with the babe. She once said that should they have known, they would have taken her from us."<br>"Olaf, are you sure they haven't already?"  
>Endenvar muddy brown eyes met his grey ones, a frown spread across both faces as they contemplated the thought.<br>"No." he whispered, the thought slowly rotating around his head. "If they had come for her, they wouldn't have done it like that. Aliana… She was gone… changed…" He rubbed his hand through his hair, eyes haunted. "They are malevolent," he said, "but I don't think even they would do that to someone. Besides, after what I did to Gylda, there is no chance I would be alive today if they did."  
>Endenvar slapped Olaf on the back with a resounding thump.<br>"Either way you look at it you are probably not going to survive." Endenvar grinned widely at his friend, years of friendship and comradery between them. "I always find that a bit of bosh and a lot of flattery does the trick with the ladies… Looking at you now though… There is no easy way to say this, but Olaf, you smell like a brewery in a whore house. No amount of flattery is going to cover that up." He held his nose between his forefinger and thumb and made waving movements with his other hand.  
>"Fine, fine." He said, "I get the picture. I'd rather see Burrisson the Blue myself. Let's go Ginta, and see what he can do for my unique odor."<br>"Olaf"  
>"Yes?"<br>"Try not to get yourself killed."  
>He nodded, not sure enough of himself to speak, he turned from his friend and walked into the morning light, Ginta a step behind him. Her wavy brown hair bound behind her back with a bandana, little Ginna held securely in her arms. For a moment he could not see, he waited calmly while his eyes adjusted to the morning sun glinting off of the permafrost. Reaching out he took Ginta's hand, waited while she shifted her daughter in her arms, then focused his energy on the Zelwchor Waypoint. With a gulp of air and the shuddering feeling of his stomach dropping to his feet, they arrived at the waypoint. Olaf released Ginta's work worn hand as soon as they arrived and wiped his on his leathers. He took a minute to gather his senses. As convenient as using waypoints was, it always left him dizzy and disorientated after. He could see that Ginta felt the same, although she said nothing. Instead she slowly lowered Ginna to the ground; the little girl looked very much like her mother. She had the same hair and eyes, and, according to Endenvar, she was already showing promise as a mason. As soon as her feet hit the floor, Ginna immediately made her way to her friend Saldis, who, at the tender age of seven winters, was called Razortongue.<br>Zelwchor was a truly beautiful location, thanks to the warmth of the springs it did not get as much frost and snow as the rest of Wayfarer. This was because it was located in a natural hollow, surrounded by steep hills and mountains. Around the spring grew beautiful cherry trees that were perpetually in bloom. Besides rabbits, only Minotaur and the young resided in the area. Occasionally a wolf would be found wondering around the springs, but that was a rare occurrence. The spring itself was clear and smelt heavily of sulfur, many Norn believed that it held special healing properties and came from miles around to take in both its beauty and the warmth of its waters.  
>Just ahead of them, a half-naked Norn stood singing loudly about the joys of baths and beer. A combination, according to the song, that could not be matched. Tall and built like a reservoir, Burrisson stood like a monument to the warmth of the springs. His skin flushed red from the warmth of its waters and a belly full of beer. Deep blue tattoos spiraled down the length of his arms and weaved their way around his chest, disappearing in to a pair of soaked light blue underthings. His balding head shone in the morning sun, his remaining hair carefully gathered up into a faux Mohawk that ran down the center of his head to be bunched up in a small ponytail at his back. His beard, wet and magnificent, shone with the care he had put into maintaining it. His dark gaze met that of Olaf's and a wicked grin split his not so handsome face. Walking from the waist high depth of the water he made his way to Olaf, carefully passing Saldis Razortongue, who was yet again being propositioned by young Laki. As he neared Olaf, he said;<br>"I follow a two-part spring strategy. I sit in the ste –"  
>Olaf's meaty fist caught him in the midriff and then, when he doubled over; he bought his fisted hands together on the back of his head. Taking a hammer from Ginta's tool belt, he smashed it against the side of his face. Ginta raised her eyebrow at Olaf, but said nothing. Taking her hammer from his limp grip, she made her way to the edge of the spring where Saldis' mother Edna was lounging. Bending down she gave her a kiss on her cheek before settling herself to watch their daughters at play.<br>Olaf stripped down, taking his time removing leathers that had seen better days. He pulled the course wool of his shirt over his head and stood a moment in the wafting warmth coming from the springs. Taking a deep breath he made his into the depths of the spring, and at its deepest point, dunked his head under. When he resurfaced he turned to where Ginta was sitting with Edna.  
>"My lady", he said, "Might I bother you for some soap."<br>He took care to be polite, Saldis had inherited the the title Razortongue from her mother. Ginta was the only one who got to see the sweet side of Edna's nature, or at least that is what Olaf presumed. How else could she be friends with the woman? Judging by how Saldis and Ginna played, it was a trait her daughter had inherited. Edna tossed him a bar made from rendered fat. Quickly he made to clean himself, staring in shock as the clear water around him quickly became dark with the collected dirt that had clung to him. Vaguely he tried to remember the last time he washed. Maybe a week after Gylda left? (Then only to remove all the blood that clung to him.) By bear! No wonder his guests tended to stand upwind from him! Bringing his eyes up to those of Ginta, who was staring in wide eyed amazement at the spectacle he was making – Edna now sitting beside her, not wanting to be soiled by the growing patch of dirt that surrounded him.  
>"Ginta, I need you to go to Sunspear and fetch me a fresh batch of clothing, something clean and respectable."<br>She snorted.  
>"Do you even have any clean clothes Olaf? I can't say I've seen you wash a stitch since Gylda was taken."<br>She drew a sharp breath when she saw the look on Olaf's face, rubbed her hand over her face and said;  
>"I am sorry Olaf; I didn't mean to bring her up. I'll go look."<br>She got up slowly, taking a moment to stretch her long leather clad legs. Edna followed the movement with a sparkle in her eyes. Stretching her arms over her head she bent one way then the other, and then focused her gaze to where Olaf was industriously cleaning himself with the already half used soap.  
>"Do you really mean to go?" She asked, "There is no chance you can expect a warm welcome. It's like Endenvar said; if you go it will be to your grave."<br>Not looking up from his task, Olaf pointed with his free hand to a small cherry tree that grew beside the springs. Under its flowered branches floated a Bone Fiend, its long tentacled appendages brushing gently against the damp soil. As she watched, it turned its mangled maw to where Olaf was washing himself. One long appendage lifted and wound itself around the rough bark of the tree and, caressing its wooden length, gently tap tap tapped against the cherry tree.  
>Time was running out.<p> 


	5. Desolation

_Gylda_

_? 1304 AE?_

Undulating dunes of sand rolled and crashed in a landscape ravaged by time. Everywhere Gylda looked; the landscape swelled and swallowed the ruins that rose around them like bastions to the night. In the sky a gibbous moon glared down despondently on a landscape that was out of time, its blue light the only source of illumination in a land without cloud or stars.

Gylda fought to keep her footing as the sand beneath her feet moved and rolled like waves. Desperately she held to Aliana's hand as the undulations threatened to push them apart. Her sole thought and purpose was to get to the ruins on the edge of the horizon. They rose from the chaos of the swallowing sands like a citadel, hard and unyielding. Dark and ominous it stood tall as the sands broke on their walls like the sea on rocks during a squall. Her feet could find no footholds as she fumbled her way across the landscape, her hand was sweaty and ached from the pressure she exerted on her daughter's as she half dragged her in her wake.

Her eyes focused on the dark ruins, her lips moving in a silent litany of prayer to the spirits as she fought her way towards the citadel, her face wet with a steady stream of tears as she grew more desperate. Her hair wafted around her head, blown by an unseen wind that pulled at her. Thought became meaningless, time even more so, as she made her way across the desert.

In what felt like an age she finally found her way to the monolithic structure, her eyes followed the curve of its façade in wonder. Desperately she sought an entrance to the building, slowly edging around it, always careful of the sand dunes that crashed against its walls. Up close she saw how weathered the building was, the base slowly being eroded by the force of the sand. It was made of stone as black as pitch, and, where protected from the elements, was as smooth as silk. Using her left hand, she gently felt along the buildings dark surface, feeling along quietly looking for a door or hand hold that would allow her access into its vast space. Aliana was a weight pulling at her right arm, tugging gently as the dunes pulled at her. Ignoring the feeling, Gylda continued onwards.

She sighed softly as she found an opening between two bulky pillars; slowly she eased herself between them, taking care to maneuver Aliana in before her.

The inside of the structure was vast. Without the light of the moon it was as dark as a yawning grave. Goosebumps erupted along Gylda's arms as she stared into a space with no light. Cool stale air played about the loose strands of her hair as the emptiness of the area became apparent with a tingle along her spine. Worried about her choice in destination, Gylda swung Aliana in her arms and tucked her head under her chin. Taking a deep breath she began looking for a stairway that would lead to higher ground. She closed her eyes tightly; knowing their search for light in this dark place would hinder her search, and instead focused on the feeling of the air on her skin and her sharp sense of smell. Using small shuffling steps she was able to move forward, in her arms Aliana clattered and knocked as she made her way across the uneven flagstones of the floor.

Every few steps, Gylda would stop and sniff the air; while stale it didn't have the dry burning quality as the air outside. After her fourth or fifth stop, her nose detected just the faintest trace of smoke, breathing deeply and trying desperately to slow the thudding of her heart, Gylda tried desperately to pinpoint its location. Then, picking up her pace, she made her way towards where she thought it originated.

As she grew nearer the air grew less stale and took on the smell of molding things. Taking deep gasping breaths she fought her way forward, stumbling more than once. Soon she tripped over a stairway. Still with her eyes closed, she gently moved Aliana to her left hip, careful to keep her head rested against her shoulder. Using her right hand she groped along the wall and slowly made her way up stairs that were steep and high, obviously made for someone far taller than she. On the edge of her hearing she began to hear a song, an old song, one that very few Norn knew and even less the true version. At first she thought that the madness of this place was eroding her mind, but as she made her way up the stairs it became louder and more lilted, the singer obviously not caring if she was heard. The stairway was spiralled and there were no doorways along the side her hand brushed against.

Gylda didn't know how long she climbed the stairway; in this place time was meaningless. All she knew was that she needed to reach the top of the monolith and that once she was there everything would be all right. The presence of the song helped her greatly. It bought her comfort and helped ease the desperate tension that plagued her since finding herself in this desolate place. After what felt like an age, the smell of smoke became stronger and a dim light played about the edge of her eye lids. Being careful not to blind herself, she eased her eyes open and allowed them to adjust to light that ebbed around the next turn in the staircase. She breathed in deeply, taking in the smell of smoke and the dry smell of books, then, adjusting Aliana in her arms, made her way forward to the light where the singing was originating from.

Around the turn, the stairway ended abruptly in an archway, bright light spilled out of it and illuminated the black stone that the citadel was made from. Girding her loins, Gylda made her way into the light and found herself in a vast library. Shelves ascended on either side of her into the darkness of the ceiling, ahead of her they swept immeasurably into the distance. Being careful to not jostle her child, Gylda made her way forward. Her strides were sure and strong, no longer the shuffling gait she used in the darkness below. Using her ears as her guide she made her way towards the source of the song, taking passage ways and cramped openings between the shelves that marched their way across the room.

The song grew louder as she went, the voice singing it was sure and feminine with a slight lilt on the words. Listening carefully, Gylda could not place the accent, although some of the words and phrases were familiar to her only because she had heard her great grandmother using them.

She rounded the corner and found herself in a clearing surrounded on either side by towering bookshelves. Pillows and blankets were strewn around haphazardly, and tables were cluttered with scrolls and writing materials. In its centre a large crystalline structure stood, glowing with a luminescence from within. In front of it sat a small humanoid, its hair was fire that flickered and burned around its head. The voice emanating from it feminine as it explained to the crystalline structure the names and purposes for the Spirits of the Wild. When she reached the last verse, she turned her head to where Gylda was standing and smiled beatifically as she reached the last syllable.

"Gylda" she said, her voice husky from singing. Her eyes glowed like emeralds and her skin shone lightly.

Gylda eased herself into the light of the clearing, carefully stepping over the clutter in her way. As she grew closer to the figure she noticed its diminutive height and deduced it to be human. Standing she would be double the size of Aliana.

"I'm lost." Gylda rasped; her voice grainy and small.

"That is one way of looking at it," she said, looking up at her from the floor, taking note of her sand covered gown and bare feet.

"What is that in your arms?" she asked, taking in the sight of her clinging to the child in her arms.

"My daughter," she said, shifting her in her arms, bringing her head beneath her chin and taking in the scent of her hair, "Her name is Aliana."

"Ah" She shifted and dropped her eyes. The smile, that had bought dimples to her cheeks, fell and her eyebrows came together in face that became suddenly grim, the opposite of what she was before.

"I think… I think I was like this too… When I arrived. Don't worry," she mumbled, bringing her glowing eyes to Gylda's, "It gets better."

She tried once more to smile, but it lacked the openness of her previous one.

"Where am I?" she asked.

"Um… Desolation I think? I knew once, but it's been so long." She shrugged then unfolded herself from her seat on the floor. "I am, um, sorry for the mess. I can honestly say I wasn't expecting company."

Gylda's eyes followed her as she made a half-hearted attempt at tidying the area. Her heart was thudding and sweat was beginning to form between her shoulder blades. This strange creature had an air of familiarity to her, although Gylda could not place it.

"Do I know you? You look so familiar."

The woman stalled, and then glanced at Gylda. Being careful not to spook her she made her way towards her, and, using a discarded pile of books as a ladder, climbed up until she was eye to eye with her. She bought a hand that was small and feminine with long tapering fingers up to Gylda's face where she cupped her cheek, gently running her thumb across the contours of her face.

"I can see why it likes you." She said, following her fingers with her eyes, a slight smile playing about the edges of her cupids bow mouth. "You are perfect, although I say that about all of my offshoots."

Gylda frowned at her then moved out of her reach.

"What are you saying?" she asked, anger blossoming in her voice.

"Only that my blood runs as strong in you as my daughter." She said, looking forlornly at where she stood. "And that it appears the sacrifical trait stands strong."

She tumbled down from the book pile, landing haphazardly on her feet. Then, looking up at Gylda, she bent down at the waist, stretching her arms out on either side of her. A cruel, self-deprecating smile playing across her face.

"Welcome to The Watchers Lair, child. Abandon all hope ye who enter here."


	6. Pilgrimage

_Olaf_

_Season of the Phoenix - 1304 AE_

Olaf's gut tightened and dropped as he focused on the waypoint. Nerves sizzled and frayed as he felt his concentration waver for the slightest of moments before being dropped into a cascading deluge of rain. Waypoints… Wonderful things - one could say almost perfect. The downside to using them of course being the inability of the user to to know the weather on the point they are aiming for.

Shrugging deeper into the precautionary coat he had donned earlier, he looked over to where Valdi and Endenvar were standing. Both looked like drowned rats. Smiling briefly at their washed out appearance, he walked forward, eager to get to Wolfpaw Shrine where he would find his mother. Endenvar's sudden grip on his shoulder turned him abruptly.

"Olaf, we can't go further in this downpour." Endenvar shouted to him, fighting to be heard over the reverberations of the thunder rolling through the forested mountains. "Vanjir's Stead is right here. Let's take shelter there until the storm has passed… or at the very least has calmed."

Olaf looked back at his old friend, noting his soaked clothes, wet hair and soggy sideburns. Rivulets of rainwater making paths down his weathered face and dripping onto his surcoat. Behind him, Valdi hunched forlornly in the downpour. His gangly frame showed the promise of developing into a fine specimen of Nornhood. The light of the waypoint cast shadows on his angular face in the darkness of the storm. Lightening flashed across the landscape bringing the tall trees that surrounded them in sharp relief. Olaf's gaze was drawn to Vanjir's Stead behind Valdi with its conclave roof covered in thick moss and its wooden door bolted against the storm that raged around them. Olaf strained his eyes to see in the gloom of the storm, his vision, usually excellent, hampered by the shadowy landscape that surrounded them. Unease flashed through him as he regarded the lodge; desperately he sought to find the source of the disquiet that crawled down his spine. His gaze, ever searching the shadows surrounding the lodge, eventually stopped on a small lean to. At first he could not decipher what had drawn his attention. A flash of lightening and a deafening boom of thunder soon answered that question. Under the sloped eave of the lean to perched two bone minions, their small cat like paws intertwined with each other's in a parody of holding hands. The lightening reflected brightly off their sharp toothed sculls as their hollow eyes followed his movement. In his chest, Olaf's heart thudded against his rib cage. Until he had seen those malignant aberrations, he would never know peace; they would haunt him no matter where he went. Such was their power. Soon he would have no choice; they had sent a blood fiend, a bone fiend, and now bone minions… If they sent a flesh golem, he knew his time was up. His grey eyes sought those of his closest friend.

"I am running out of time Endenvar." Olaf shouted, gesturing to the lean to, "I need to do this before I enter their domain, my mother deserves to see her son one last time."

Endenvar frowned, but said nothing; instead he turned and looked to where Olaf was pointing. Although Olaf could not hear his sharply indrawn breath, he could see it. He had not told him about the bone fiend at the spring.

"We must persevere," he shouted, turning once more in the direction of Wolfpaw Shrine. He adjusted his pack, bowed his head, and continued onwards. Indifferent as to whether Endenvar or Valdi were following him. He could hear Endenvar shout something to Valdi. Olaf stumbled ahead cursing unseen obstacles and his rotten luck. Only a fool would attempt to navigate Lornar's pass when a summer tempest was in full swing. The storms built up over the Bloodtide Coast for days before making their way through the Shiverpeaks. The surrounding mountains were infamous for attracting lightning, and during a full blown storm, the night sky was known to be illuminated like the light of day. The rumbling thunder had become a lullaby that Lorner's Pass denizens came to expect during the summer months.

Valdi remained behind, while Endenvar followed. Olaf glanced askance at Endenvars approach

"He's too young to become embroiled with those crones" Endenvar shouted as answer to his unspoken question.

"So are we!"

Their progress was slow. Hampered not only by the weather, but of thoughts of what was ahead of them. For Olaf, there was the knowledge of his failure; failure to protect his hearth and family and failure to let the Matriarch know of his transgressions. Endenvar was also conflicted, for him his Norn nature waged war with his self-preservation. On one hand he was willing to face any foe in the pursuit of glory and friendship, but on the other was the sure knowledge that any who had entered that particular Citadel never left it. He was willing to follow his friend anywhere, but like most Norn who had started their life's journey in Timberland Falls, he suspected that Jormag's Lair was safer than the place his old friend had to travel to.

Endenvar had known Olaf near his whole life, both drawn together by their lack of paternal influence, his father having died before his sixth winter, and Olaf never knowing his. In his twelfth year, when his mother was taken by an avalanche while hunting, Olaf's mother, Xanthia, took him in. In their home he had always been accepted, and Olaf and he were raised as brothers. Xanthia was kind and doting, she taught the boys strength, fortitude and respect for the Spirits of the Wild. When Endenvar had displayed Mesmer abilities while in the throes of puberty, she had found someone Kyesjard willing to pass on the art of control, while she herself taught her youth how to utilize the greatsword, hammer, sword and axe. Under her tutelage they had a happy childhood. They loved her dearly and, while they wandered the wilds and experienced many adventures together, they would always come home to Kyesjard and Xanthia. It was a happy time for Olaf and Endenvar. That period of happiness ended the night Olaf met Gylda. Suddenly his priorities had changed. A rift formed in their friendship then, one that took many years to heal. When Olaf told Xanthia who his heart's desire was, her eyes grew troubled. She never said anything about his choice in mate, but her expression had spoken volumes to Endenvar. He watched as she became more worried, as she grew thin and ragged from the knowledge of her son's choice. She never spoke to him of her worries, she never did anything but support him. So Endenvar had taken her burden. He fought and shouted and threatened, but Olaf would not hear reason. 'The heart wants what the heart wants' he had retorted. Although nothing Olaf could say or do could convince Gylda to leave her father's hearth. Xanthia had taken matters in hand then. She told her son that for someone like Gylda, the fear of rejection was a very real thing. She said that for Gylda, a fresh start was imperative. So she had arranged for them to stay with relatives in Wayfarer, and helped him build his hearth. 'Stay near him' she had said to Endenvar, 'Watch over him when I can't.' At the time, Endenvar had not understood the significance of her request. It was but a month later, when both he and Olaf were standing over her grave that her meaning was driven home. They never did discover what happened to her, but Endenvar had a suspicion, one which he could not prove.

So he had built his Lodge near Olaf's, and when the wild beckoned, he had joined Olaf in their many adventures. He could see how their wandersome ways took their toll on Gylda, who never left Olaf's newly built hearth. The everpresent dimples began to fade, as Olaf's disregard took its toll. She started a herb garden outside her home that flourished under her care. While adventuring he would take care to find interesting seeds for her to add to her growing collection of plants. Her excitement at such a small gesture allowed Endenvar to understand what it was that made Olaf fall in love with a Norn that came from a family with as soiled a reputation. Soon, Gylda became pregnant with Aliana and it seemed the sadness that had made its home in Sunspear was lifted. Aliana was a blessing, not only for the residents of Sunspear, but for himself too. He had loved that smiling child as if she was his own. He could not describe the loss he felt when he had gone to visit his friend and found him in a pool of his own blood or the despair and anger he encountered when he followed Gylda's bloody limping trail to a dead end. He was Norn enough to admit that part of him would never forgive his friend for what he had done.

Nearly halfway to the shrine, they were attacked by a marauding Earth Elemental. With a shout and a gleam in his eye, Olaf anticipated destroying the magical creature with glee, finally having a focal point to release the anger and frustration that had been building within him. Gesturing to his friend to stay back he advanced with his mighty greatsword. He attacked with the vehemence of blind rage scoring the stone with little damage Endenvar attacked from afar with winds of chaos weakening the elemental and strengthening Olaf but Earth elementals were known for their preservation and fortitude. Around them thunder cracked, while lightning acted as a strobe light to the futile battle in front of Endenvar, the jerking movements of their battle coming in flashes. It seemed that the rain fell harder as the storm picked up intensity. Whatever part of them was dry soon became drenched with the force of the rain, sweat and blood. The landscape, already shadowy, became darker still as the worst of the storm hit them with the force of a gale. There was a shout of pain as Olaf weakened to the relentless attack, Endenvar created a clone with his phase retreat to bolster Olaf and distract the elemental. In a final effort Endenvar simultaneously Summoned a chaos storm and Olaf thundered a charge rendering the hostile creature into a pile of rocks. Breathing deeply and bleeding from a plethora of superficial scrapes and cuts he lent heavily on his greatsword and regarded the rubble before him. Not looking up from his contemplation he asked;

"What am I going to do, Endenvar? How do I make this right?"

The words were swallowed by the tempest that raged around them. While Endenvar could not hear him, he got the gist of what he was saying from the forlorn expression and posture that Olaf displayed. It was as if the sky was sharing his pain.

Endenvar walked up to his friend and put his hand on his shoulder, squeezed it lightly, before he helped him to his feet.

"We persevere, Olaf, no matter what the circumstances. That is the way of the Norn."

Once more they continued to the shrine in the lessening rain. By the time they reached the steeply hilly landscape where the shrine was located, the sun was cautiously showing its face from behind the clouds. One could say that the rest of their journey was pleasant, but to do that you would have to discount the chaffing of their leathers on their skin, the stinging of rain and sweat in Olaf's wounds, the heaviness of their packs pulling down on them, the mud that clung to their boots, the cold that seeped into their bones, and most importantly, their heavy hearts as they moved through territory that was wholly familiar to them, but which neither had had the heart to visit since Xanthia's passing. They remained silent the rest of the way to the shrine, both contemplating the fate ahead of them. Every now and again Olaf would see the two bone minions darting between the trees, their movement seeming to belong to a much more agile creature than the abominations they were.

The first they saw of the shrine was the glowing eyes of wolf cubs, huddled around the wooden structure. The brazier that was in its heart burnt warmly, and, even though they were a distance from the shrine, they could feel its warmth penetrating their travel worn bodies. As they drew nearer to the shrine the wolf cubs scattered, Olaf assumed to a nearby den where they would find their mother. When they were near enough, both simultaneously sunk to their knees and paid homage to Wolf.

"Grant us the power to contain our ferocity, to release it when needed." They intoned, "Grant us the fortitude to remain loyal to our companions no matter the dark paths we tread. May you lead us into adventures unsung, lands unexplored, and depths undelved. Our strength is in our numbers, our hearts beat for those who share in our glory. Now and forever"

They beat thrice against their breast before ending in a massive howl that reverberated in the clearing. After a second, the undulation of their song was joined by the cubs hiding in their den. Smiling sheepishly they stood. Their prayer heard and in a manner answered, they got to the business of what had bought them so out of their way in the first place.

Behind the shrine stood a large boulder, and behind that was a small grave, its stone marker carved carefully into bold knots with a slight clearing in its workings for the name Xanthia Clearwater written in bold runic. Recently someone had placed a red iris under its shadow. Protected as it was by the boulder and shrine, the gravesite was undisturbed by the storm that had so recently raged in the area. Olaf fell to his knees in front of the small gravestone; his hand gently caressed the workings of the stone knots before coming to rest on the outlines of his mother's name. Fingers moving of their own accord, he traced the outlines of it. Endenvar turned his back, hoping to give his friend the privacy he needed.

"I've failed mamma," He whispered to the hard stone, "I didn't listen when you told me to be attentive, I should've, but I didn't. I treated her like you, always assuming she'd be there when I got back. And now she is gone, and so are you."

He rested his forehead against the hard stone, it was cold and the harsh grain of it bit into his skin, uncaring he hugged it closer.

"I tried to kill our child. At the time I thought it was the right thing to do, but as time has gone on I have doubts." He frowned and hugged the gravestone tighter still, "I keep thinking about the consequence of my actions that night. If I had been calmer, if I had thought before acting… maybe… maybe, Gylda and Aliana would still be here. I think I killed her mamma. I think I killed them both. I keep looking, but I can't find her. Them. You would have been proud of her mamma; she fought me like a demon trying to protect the child. And in return I killed her." A deep, racking sob broke from his chest. Endenvar pretended not to hear it. "Her mothers are calling me mamma. They have sent their creatures and they will have me no matter if I come willingly or not. I am scared mamma. I know I deserve whatever cruelty they have planned, but mamma, I am scared. How do I tell them I killed their child. Their only daughter. How do I explain that it was because I was trying to kill their grandchild? Your grandchild."

He rubbed his bearded cheek against the harshness of the stone and tried to control the harsh emotions that whirled within him. A single tear made its path down his face before melting into his beard.

"I should have told them sooner… should have told you sooner. I have so much regret mamma. Endenvar is coming with me, you chose me a good brother mamma, he would make you proud. Good bye mamma, I'll see you soon."

He untangled himself from the stone and stood, looking down at the epitaph he had written the last time he had come to see his mother, the day they had buried her. The words on the stone could never do her justice, to Olaf she was the greatest Norn to live, not just because she died bravely, but because she lived wholly for others. Some achieved great legends that were passed down through the ages, stories that were told to give thrills and chills. Xanthia's legend on Tyria wasn't that large, but the mark it left on Olaf and Endenvar was one that would pass down the roots of their families... Or whatever family they had left. Breathing deeply of the rain fresh air, Olaf took tight rein on his emotions before turning to his friend, knowing he too would like to say his goodbyes to the woman who considered him her son.

Endenvar was kneeling by a small hollow in the boulder, his massive shoulders obscuring whatever it was he was looking at. Curious, Olaf stepped up to his friend, and bent to look at what he had so gently cupped in his hand. Two very serious blue eyes looked up at him from Endenvar's palm. Its head was far larger than its body, and it staggered under the weight of it, the only thing allowing it to balance being the large bat like ears that twitched and moved with whatever emotion it was feeling. A small tuft of blue hair grew haphazardly on its otherwise bald head, which Endenvar was gently stroking with his index finger. Its small stumpy three toed feet could be seen peeking out of the weight of its strangely shaped gut. Small twig like arms held tightly to Endenvar's thumb as it gummed the tip of it industriously. The serious eyes were the only bright thing about it. At a glance Olaf could tell that the small creature was malnourished, the protruding gut and twig like limbs suggested that it had been a long time since the babe had received any sort of sustenance. The blue/green skin of its face was severely sunken in and while sucking Endenvar's thumb Olaf could see the misshapen protrusion of it's skull . Looking around, Olaf noticed the remnants of some sort of golem that had obviously contained the babe, a swaddling cloth lay wet and discarded where the infant had tried to free itself from the contraption. Looking closer at the child, Olaf couldnt help but notice where the babe had cut itself in its bid for escape from the golem, its little hands were riddled with scrapes. Carefully, as not to scare it, Endenvar opened the first few buttons of his shirt and eased the creature inside it. He gently transferred it from his hand to the warmth of his skin where it tangled its small hands in his chest hair and promptly fell asleep, content to be near the warmth of his body.

"Endenvar."

"I can't leave it, Olaf."

"What can we do with it old friend? The place we will be going is far too dangerous. Besides, what do we know of asuran children? I didnt even know if they could breed nevermind produce a child. Hell, I thought they licked a swab, inserted it into a golem and a fully grown Asura popped out the other end!"

"I can't leave it, Olaf."

"Well we can't take it! For Bear's sake, Endenvar, if it comes with us its as good as dead!"

Endenvar looked belligerently up at Olaf. Although Endenvar said nothing Olaf could read his expression. It said no. It said it couldn't leave the babe to be eaten by the wild things. It said that he could never leave a child to the elements like Olaf had planned to leave his that fateful night.

"Fine." He sighed, "But you keep it, its chance of survival is greater with you than I."


	7. Strange Encounters

_Endenvar_

_Season of the Phoenix - 1304 AE_

After a short, but intense debate, Olaf and Endenvar set up camp in the shadow of the large boulder. Shortly after the decision was made, Olaf disappeared into the surrounding hills in search of dry lumber to make a fire, while Endenvar built a tent. Even though the sky above them was showing no signs of another thunderstorm, Lorner's pass was well known for its sudden storms. After their adventure to reach the shrine, Endenvar wasn't keen on being caught in another of nature's wonders. When the tent was up and as stable as he could make it, Endenvar stripped out of his cloth and surcoat, while doing this he took care to keep the little Asura wrapped in the warmth of his shirt. He hung his soaked clothes on a line he had tied between the top of the shrine and a nearby tree. He prayed that Wolf would not take offence at his indiscretion, but knew that it would probably understand his need to be dry. He needed to take advantage of the sun while it lasted. He dug up some slightly cleaner clothes from his pack, grateful he had decided to take an extra set, and slid into their slightly damp mass. While not perfectly dry they were better than the soaked remnants hanging from the makeshift line. Once fully clothed he searched his pack once more and bought out some dried meat and cheese. Pulling out a long knife, he cut a sliver of dried meat and gave it to the babe to gum. It did so with gusto.

Olaf had been desperate to continue his journey, but as Endenvar pointed out, jumping waypoints so often in such a short period of time would lead to waypoint sickness. An age ago an enterprising Asura by the name of Kito proved that the use, or misuse, of waypoints could have drastic effects on the user's health. It took Kito thirty seven jumps to prove that overuse of waypoints was a fatal offence. Thanks to his enterprising research however, it was found that individuals whose battle prowess relied more on physical attributes alone did not suffer as much, but those who were born to magical gifts had a set amount of jumps before their magic would be affected or affect others. In Endenvar's case it was a splitting migraine that throbbed behind his temples, in another jump his magical capacity would diminish and become slightly uncontrollable, a jump after that would render him unconscious for at least an hour. The more jumps made in short periods, the more severe the side effects. It wasn't just the magically inclined that suffered, already Olaf was beginning to show wear and tear.

Although he said nothing, Endenvar couldn't help but notice the slight tremble in Olaf's hands, or the veined redness of his eyes. Olaf had taken to drinking heavily after Gylda's loss, and Endenvar suspected that he had begun to rely on that vice too heavily. Besides the waypoint sickness, there were other matters to consider before jumping to Naui Waters. For one, Endenvar had to consider the babe. He wasn't sure on Asuran child physiology and couldn't be sure how the jump would affect it. What he did know is that in all his years he had never seen an Asuran babe, and that fact was worrying. Besides this, there was Olaf's mental state. As their journey progressed Olaf had become steadily more surly and desperate. His emotional turmoil was plain to see and Endenvar did not know how to handle it. In fact he didn't know how to handle this whole situation, he hadn't from the moment that Olaf met Gylda.

He scooped the babe up in one hand and with the other picked up the mangled golem he had found it in, and then made his way to Xanthia's grave. He sat cross legged in front of it the heavy stone with the little Asuran in his lap and slowly and methodically took the mangled golem apart. From what he could see it was damaged from the inside out. Once all the parts where completely disengaged from each other and spread out before him, he looked carefully at the mechanisms that held it together.

"Someone sure wanted to keep you in there." He said to the babe. It was still sucking noisily on the piece of meat he had given it. At the sound of his voice it looked up at him with big blue eyes and gave him a gummy smile. Endenvar felt his heart lift looking at it.

"Why would anyone want to imprison you, little one?"

He ran his finger across the downy softness of its blue hair and marveled at its silkiness. The babe reminded him of another Asura he had known a lifetime ago. She was a curious little thing by the name of Zinnia; she was always puttering in their wake as they made their way through the wilds of Tyria. They were young when they knew her, and the world was still filled with wonder and mystery. Perhaps it was because of their youth that they were unable to protect the small Asura from the events that caused her demise. It was a life changing experience for Endenvar that weighed heavily on his conscious, only Xanthia had known its full extent. She had told him to keep a quiet heart, that one day an opportunity for redemption would come. He genuinely believed that this small child was that opportunity.

"It's funny how the world works." He said to the grave marker. "Olaf loses a child and I gain one. Should I keep it mamma?"

He cocked his head as if listening to what Xanthia had to say. The little Asuran stirred in his lap and then hid behind his wrist, its prized meat still held firmly in its hands.

A thick mist began to creep around the edges of the boulder, a chill filled the air and his breath began to condense in front of his face. He could feel the babe shivering behind his wrist and moved his hand so that he could cup it in its warmth. Two blue eyes looked up at him fearfully. A small whimpering filled his ears as the child curled itself into a fetal position and began to rock itself.

The only warning he had of the attack was the rank odor of burning charcoal before a clawed foot flashed past where his head would have been. Time slowed. He watched as the furred foot arced above him, taking hold of the babe in his hand, he weaved an illusion with the other. It wasn't his best work, but without the aid of a weapon as a focus it was all he could do to distract the attacker. He closed his eyes and with a surge of power blinked out of his attackers reach. When he opened them again, it was to the sharp tang of an edged blade to his throat.

"You are not the only one who can move in shadow, Mesmer." A voice growled in his year. He could feel the clawed tips of its paw pressing into the corded muscle of his arm as it held him in place. It was tall. Judging from the warmth along his back, he would say the creatures head would brush under his chin should they stand face to face. The child was held tightly in his hand pressed to his chest, he could feel it squirm as he squeezed it too tight. He could feel a warm trail slide down his neck as the blade pressed too close.

"Mistress Wolf is this truly necessary." Called a female voice to his left, its tone was clipped and commanding. "I daren't think what would happen if we accosted all Norn in this manner."

"Madam Strange, this one fits the profile." His attacker growled behind him. Charr. His attacker was Charr. He could recognize that musky odor anywhere. Apparently it was also female, in Endenvar's experience it was extremely difficult to tell between Charr sexes. Why, only last year he got into a fight with a male he had thought to be a rather dashing female.

"Are you sure Mistress Wolf, wasn't it just the other day that you mentioned that you thought all Norn looked the same."

His attacker, Mistress Wolf, grumbled but didn't let up her grip on his shoulder or the move the blade from his throat. He had yet to see Madam Strange, but he could hear her rifling through their packs. His breath was shallow; deep within himself he began to shore the reserves of magic that powered his Mesmic abilities. He would have one chance to use them; he needed to distract the thief before making for the tree line. He thought he would be able to hold at least two illusions, but without the aid of a focus he wasn't sure for how long. The hand that wasn't holding the babe fisted, he focused his energy on it and slowly breathed out. He concentrated his attention only on the movement of his magic along his arm, trying to build it within his fist. The voices of his captors droned around him in a gentle susurration. His nails bit into his palm, he could feel blood welling between his fingers only to be burned away by the intensity of the magic he collected. The magic built within him, surging and swelling like the beating of his heart. He would have only one chance to do this; he had to make it count.

He was so focused on the magic burning within him that he didn't notice his captors had stopped talking. While his eyes were open, they were unseeing. Had he paid attention to his surroundings, he would have noticed that the Charr behind him had removed her paw from his arm, and had instead used it to place another blade at his kidneys. If he had paid more attention, he would have felt the unseen communication between his two captors. If he had listened, he would have heard the whisper of a cry coming from the hand holding the babe. He didn't notice any of this however.

He snapped back to attention when he felt small hands ease around his own. He felt a surge, and then a great feeling of loss as his power drained out of him. Shocked he looked down into a pair black eyes glistening with ill purpose. She was small, her head would brush against his hip bone, but more than that she was so definitively other. Endenvar had heard of the Sylvari before, but in his journey's had yet to encounter one. This was hardly surprising considering they were barely two years old. This one had the look of swamp things, her barklike skin was dark brownish grey smeared with moss green, branches grew from her head haphazardly, and each was tipped with tiny lime green leaves. His heart burned in his chest as his life force began to drain out of him. Panicked, he attempted to break free of the Charr's grip only to feel the bite of a blade in the flesh where his kidneys were. Weakness flooded his system. Slowly the Charr behind him eased him to the ground. He couldn't move.

"My." said Madam Strange, "I bet you thought yourself awfully smart trying that."

She drew a deep breath, the Charr moved him to his side. His arm fell from his chest, his fingers, weakened, opened up revealing the babe. It sat in his palm so still, ears flattened against its head as it shivered under the gaze of his assailants.

"That explains that then." Mistress Wolf rumbled.

"I don't understand?"

"He's got a cub. It stands to reason he would try to protect it Madam Strange."

"Really? Why?"

Above him, he could see the Charr regarding the dark creature with a fierce expression on its face.

"Madam Strange, it just is. One does not ask why one does it only that one does. That is all."

"My, the rules you creatures follow is quiet intense. Personally I would lob the thing like a grenade, I couldn't think of a better distraction."

The Charr's expression became dark.

"Madam, I would ask you kindly to step away from the child."

The Charr scooped the babe up in her hand and flipped it over.

"Ahh." She said. "A little girl. Aren't you a sweet little thing?" she purred.

Mistress Wolf's fur was black as night splotched with white patches, she had scars on the left of her body. Old burns weaved their way around her arm and the left side of her face where a milky white eye stared blankly at the world. The other, a brilliant green, was filled with sharp intelligence. Two sets of ears flicked with annoyance as she regarded the creature before her. Despite this, she was gentle with the babe, carefully holding it so that her claws wouldn't penetrate her delicate skin.

"Is it?" asked Madam Strange.

"Is it what, Madam Strange?"

"Is it sweet? Can I taste her?"

The Charr bought the child closer to her breast and cleared her throat. Endenvar began to feel a tingling in his fingers, the weakness was wearing off.

"Poor choice of wording Madam Strange. Did you find anything of interest in their packs?"

"Indeed."

"And?"

"And finally we are near our goal. Be a dear and stab the gentleman again Mistress Wolf. He is beginning to stir and we have some questions to ask before he is able to attack us again."

She bought her bottomless black eyes to his and stared into their muddied depths.

"Now, Norn, I don't want any foolery. You will tell me the truth. If you tell me a lie I will know and Mistress Wolf here will be forced to coerce you into giving truthful answers. You would not enjoy that I assure you, Mistress Wolf knows a great deal about poison and the manners in which to inflict great pain. Is that not right Mistress Wolf?"

"It is indeed Madam Strange."

"Now, I'm going to let you speak, I am not going to insult you by telling you not to scream, I know a Norn of your stature would be gravely insulted by the sentiment."

He could move his head. The first thing he did was scan for Olaf. He was not back, and he could not sense him nearby. The wolf pups where hiding in their den, he could see their yellow eyes staring out at him. He then bought his gaze to the babe. She was so tiny all he could make out of her was the tips of her ears from between the Charr's claws. They were standing straight up.

"What is your name?" asked the Sylvari, she was pacing in front of him. With the limited movement available to him he tried to follow her movements, but it was difficult, so instead he focused his attention in front of him to where he knew Xanthia's grave to be. Silently he prayed to Wolf that Olaf would not walk in on this. His friend would never let him live it down.

Mistress Wolf kicked him. Pain blossomed. He gasped for breath. If he could move he would be doubled over in pain.

"Madam Strange asked you a question." She growled at him.

"Endenvar."

Breathing became difficult; he suspected that the Charr had broken a rib.

"Truth." said Madam Strange; she held an etching in front of his face. It was small, about the size of Madam Strange's hand. In it Gylda had Aliana wrapped tightly in her embrace; two sets of smiling eyes looked out to the viewer. It had been a perfect moment immortalized. "Do you know who they are?"

Endenvar's muddy eyes sort that of the Sylvari. She had stopped and was regarding him intently. She crouched down so she could better see his face, her small bark roughened hand gripped his chin so that she could better see his face.

"Do you know who they are?!" her voice was filled with power. Around them the mist grew thicker, it crept about them making visibility almost nonexistent. The world suddenly consisted of Madam Strange and Mistress Wolf. The Charr shifted uncomfortably and tucked the babe into a more secure position.

"Dead." he whispered, "They are long dead."

"Truth." she said, "but also a lie. I have no patience for games Norn."

"We never found their bodies, but the blood trail let to a dead end. No one could have survived the amount of blood lost. The woman was torn up by a rampaging Norn."

"I do not care for the woman, Endenvar, only the child."

His chest tightened. He needed to tread carefully. Slowly he schooled his features into a blank mask.

"The child died first." Technically this was not a lie; Olaf had said that the child had been taken by Jormag. The Sylvari's black eyes burned. The paper holding Gylda's likeness crumpled in her hands. Necrotic power spilled off her in waves.

"Truth, but also a lie." She shared a dark look with the Charr.

Mistress Wolf moved so fast that he didn't see her. One minute she was standing at rest with the child in her paw, the next excruciating pain exploded in his chest. Blood pooled around the embedded dagger.

"What you are feeling now, Mister Norn, is a special blend of spider venom harvested from a very specific breed of spider." The Charr's voice was calm, inflectionless. "It is magical stuff. I find one dose is sufficient to convince anyone that I prefer the full truth to half-truths."

He couldn't breathe. Pain spread from the dagger towards his limbs. It wove around his heart and lungs, then eased its way to his guts. He felt them spasm and come alive within him. It was too much, he began to scream.

"Enough of that." said Madam Strange. His lungs shut off and his voice strangled off to a gurgle. He burned.

"Now, Endenvar, we are going to be candid with one another. You are going to tell me what happened to the child, or what you suspect happened, and I am not going to make my dear friend kill that lovely baby she had nestled in her paw. Are we clear?"

He could barely think past the agony that burned through him. He stared malignantly up at the Sylvari. He would not be broken by this foul creature.

"Are we clear, Endenvar?!"

Mistress Wolf jostled the dagger sticking from his chest. He did not think he could hurt more, he was wrong. Slowly, not breaking eye contact with the Sylvari, he nodded.

"Good. I am glad we understand one another."

She released the magical bonds that held his chest and vocal cords. Mistress Wolf stood and resumed her position behind Madam Strange, the babe hidden from sight.

"Now, tell me about that night."

"I wasn't there," he said.

"I know. I have been hunting your companion for a long time. Imagine my disappointment when I found out that bigger fish were after him. I have been told that I am insane, but I assure you, even I am not mad enough to take on those madwomen." She shuddered. "This left me with a dilemma you see. I could not question him, and everyone else seemed to think that the child was taken by Jotan. My, I thought, what am I to do? My dear Mistress Wolf is the one who suggested that perhaps his best friend would know the true story. She explained how strange sentients are, how they liked to tell at least one person their secrets. Personally I think that is poor housekeeping, but then, I am not known for my stupidity. So, Endenvar, tell me what you know about that night. Believe me when I tell you that if you lie to me again, even slightly, I will destroy you." She bought her face close to his; he was tempted to bite the smirk off of it. "And trust me, Endenvar, I do know the worst possible way."

She smiled toothlessly, and then stood and resumed pacing in front of him. Behind her Mistress Wolf stared straight ahead, her face blank.

"Speak."

So he did. He spoke through pain that was eating him alive, through limbs reduced to jelly. He told her everything he knew or suspected. He spoke until his deep voice was hoarse with use. When he was done, she nodded once; as if he had confirmed suspicions she already held, then turned and walked into the mists that surrounded them. Mistress Wolf came to him and pulled the dagger from his chest. With it went the pain. She then folded the little Asuran back into his vest and patted her head before turning and following her companion. Mist folded around her leaving him alone in the clearing. The wolf pups tumbled out of their den and sniffed at his prone figure. It was a long time before he could move again.


	8. Atrium

_Gylda_

_? - 1304 AE?_

Time was indiscernible in the tower, minutes, hours and days all melded into one and, without the sun and moon as a guide, Gylda lost count of the time she spent in the endless library. An unofficial routine took what time she spent awake.

In what she considered the mornings, she would spend time in the atrium with her Many Mother (called such because she insisted she was neither great nor grand). Often she would read or braid Aliana's tresses while her Many Mother would putter about or chatter to the pulsating crystal.

After that she would tuck Aliana under her arm and attempt to map out the expansive shelves of books that spiraled out from the Atrium. She made little headway, and would often get lost. The towering bookcases were arrayed without reason and often paths she had chosen would end abruptly, or open up to vast chambers filled with a strange assortment of artifacts. Gylda could not bring herself to explore these chambers for fear of what they held. When she had first found herself in the Monolith, Many Mother had warned her of these places, saying that their contents were dangerous even for her. When she found herself lost in the vast library she would holler for her Many Mother and always - without exception - her Many Mother would find her, no matter how lost she got herself.

In what she perceived as the evenings she would collect and pile pillows into a nest. Her Many Mother would join her on the downy cushions and tell her stories of the time before the dragons. She would never speak of herself or the adventures she had been on, but focused more on her companions. Gylda laughed when she told her of Koss and his ego, and cried when she told the story of Jora and her brother. It was somehow different hearing the story from someone who had witnessed it firsthand. When the story was finished she somehow always found herself wrapped in the arms of the small human much the same way she held her daughter. Her Many Mother would run her slender fingers through her hair soothingly until sleep took her. Gylda had never felt the loving touch of her mother. All she had ever received from her was a fear of dark places and a hatred of running water. There was a reason she opted to live with her father at a young age. More often than not she would fall asleep to her Many Mother's voice humming or singing quietly. In the moment between sleep and wakefulness she knew absolute peace. Once she stepped over that threshold, however… nothing. She didn't dream, she didn't even get the sense of sleep. One moment she would be lying in her Many Mother's arms, the next she would waken to her Many Mother chattering to the crystal, or reading in a corner.

Gylda worried about her Many Mother. There was something… broken, about her.

The day started like any other. She awoke to the sound of Many Mother arguing with a worn shelf. Ignoring the intense debate she changed Aliana into a borrowed frock of Many Mother's before she donned her own patchwork garments. When she had first arrived all she had to cover her nudity was a torn leather cloak, so Many Mother had set out to create something decent for her to wear. She did this by sewing many of her own outfits together, making a medley of clothing. It wasn't distasteful, just colourful. She wore a pair of varicoloured pants, a billowing white shirt with a blended vest. Standing, she stretched. Her muscles groaned and joints popped as she stretched out her long frame. Grunting, she hoisted her daughter in her arms before making her way to the center of the Atrium, tripping over the many obstacles in her way. Initially she had tried to tidy the cluttered area, but soon resigned herself to the disorder. Many Mother made mess faster than she could clean. She was like a butterfly, fluttering from one unfinished project to another. It frustrated Gylda greatly, but she said nothing, not knowing how long they would be cooped up together. She folded her large frame to sit cross legged and settled Aliana to her lap. She then proceeded to brush her waist length hair then worked on Aliana's crimson tresses, her curls bouncing into a bob as they were released from the brush. She cleared her throat loudly, hoping to interrupt the argument Many Mother was having with herself.

"Um…" said Many Mother, "Was I, ah, doing it again…?"

"It sounded very intense." Gylda replied, her voice soft, she didn't want to embarrass her Many Mother further.

"I am, um, sorry. I forget sometimes."

"It's okay, Many Mother, you've been alone a very long time."

She continued running the brush through Aliana's hair, her tiny head bobbing and moving with the strokes of the brush. Outside the sand roared as it smashed against the hard stone of the monolith. The air inside the monolith was dry, and smelt of ancient things. Since she had climbed the tower, she had never once felt the need to venture the depths below. The library felt safe to her, and didn't have the cold desperation of the moon filled sky pressing down on her. She drew a deep breath and exhaled through her nose. Aliana was so still. Despite being careful, she couldn't help pulling Aliana's small head one way then another when she pulled the brush through her curls. Many Mother watched pensively.

"Are you, ah, going to explore today?" she asked. The fire of her hair dimming at her troubled thoughts.

"I was thinking of looking beyond the first chamber today. I think there's promise beyond it. Are you sure I can't open any of the boxes there?"

"Um… Yes. Bad things in those, I think… I can't remember what, just that it hurt."

She hugged herself wearily. She was wearing a gown in the style of old Ascalon, a large greatsword was strapped to her back breaking the femininity of the outfit. Gylda had never seen her Many Mother without it. Many Mother mumbled incoherently more often than not. On her lucid days she would disappear from the Atrium and into the vast library that arrayed from their haven. Gylda had tried to follow once, but had gotten hopelessly disoriented. One of the reasons she was so desperately mapping out the infinite library was out of curiosity about her Many Mother.

When Aliana's hair was orderly, Many Mother helped hitch her to Gylda's back with a blanket.

"Be careful," mumbled Many Mother, her small hands trembling as she helped Gylda tie a knot on the blanket, "I, um, I have a bad feeling today… I don't know why."

Her eyes were troubled as they stared up at Gylda.

"Of course, Many Mother."

The day was mostly uneventful. All she found beyond the chamber of forgotten artifacts was row upon row of old books and scrolls. The deeper she went into the unseen beyond, the harder it got to breath. The air was too dry, too aged. It seemed as it the knowledge contained on the shelves loomed over her, watched her. Gylda felt paranoia setting in. She shifted Aliana on her back, made sure the knots holding her in the blanket were still strong, and then turned to go back. When she turned to look for the way she came, it seemed as if the book shelves had shifted, obscuring her path. Gylda's heartbeat jumped in her throat, she was terrified. The path she had taken seemed to creak with the breath of a living thing. Gylda didn't hesitate.

"MANY MOTHER!"

Her voice echoed across the shadowy space, dispelling the uneasy feeling that had taken root in her. She heard a thud and the sound of running feet, before her Many Mother appeared around a corner, greatsword in hand.

Her Many Mother's flaming hair was disheveled. The length of her layered flowing skirt was tucked into her underwear, allowing her to run faster. First she glanced at Gylda, then at the shelves around her.

"I will have none of that." she whispered to the shelves. Her jewel green eyes flared into full luminescence. Her skin, which glowed slightly under normal circumstances, burned with the power of her rage. At her furious command the shelves receded.

"Follow me," she turned and walked forward, not bothering to see if Gylda was following her.

Gylda wasn't sure how long she followed her Many Mother, nor what route they took to the Atrium. She had never seen her Many Mother rage, and the sight of it planted a seed of fear in her heart.

This, thought Gylda, was the renowned warrior who did all those great and terrible things.

When they arrived in the cluttered hospitality of the Atrium, her Many Mother sheathed her sword on her back once more and went to speak to the crystal. Gylda could not hear her words, but could read her body language. Whatever she was saying to the crystal was punctuated with sharp hand gestures and a fierce expression. The flames of her hair became bright with cobalt lacing. She turned sharply to Gylda.

"It is time to sleep."

Gylda didn't argue as her Many Mother helped remove Aliana from her back, nor fight her when she helped ease her and the child to the cushions that suddenly appeared around them. Her Many Mother didn't hold her that night, she didn't tell her stories, nor did she hum or sing. Gylda fell asleep with a heavy heart.

That night she dreamed for the first time since she arrived.

_The balmy heat of her enclosed garden caressed her tan skin, warming it with its generous touch. The gentle hum of the force field sizzled as it held a snowstorm at bay, beyond it; the world was a swirling white frenzy masking the lodge she shared with Olaf. Breathing deeply, Gylda took in the scent of freshly tilled earth, mulch, fertilizer and, best of all, the smell of things growing. She felt the rich dark soil crumble between her fingers as she fought to remove a weed from smothering her precious omnomberries. She sat back, weed in hand, with a feeling of triumph. Endenvar had insisted that she would never be able to sustain the omnomberries. She felt a keen sense of pride in proving him wrong. She tossed the weed into the growing pile and gazed over at her daughter. She was sitting nearby, her face and hands covered in the rich soil that surrounded them; in her hands she held a miniature spade in imitation of Gylda. She looked up then, the depth in her green eyes sparkling, and smiled broadly, her even milk teeth white and perfect. Gylda's throat closed with emotion. She never could have believed she could love anything as much as she loved her child. When she was pregnant she was so scared she would be like her mother, that she would reject Aliana as her mother had rejected her._

_Shifting slightly, she snagged a ripe strawberry and offered it to Aliana, before she could accept it Gylda reminded her gently._

_"What do we say?" she asked._

_Aliana's pale green eyes met hers; she frowned, and then smiled. It was like watching the sun peak out from clouds on a rainy day._

_"Than' you mamma."_

_Her words still held the slightly slurred quality of the littlest of children. Gylda smiled, and then handed Aliana the strawberry. It was so large that Aliana had to cup it in both hands._

_"It's a pleasure baby." she said._

_Juice from the strawberry mixed with the dark soil on her face and hands, turning it into a sweet mud. Between bites, Aliana would chatter to Gylda in her unintelligible language, a constant jabber of gibberish that required nothing more than an 'Ah' or 'Oh?' from Gylda._

_Gylda leaned back on her hands and stared at the swirling snow outside the dome. She felt relaxed, at peace and happy. She breathed in the smell of her garden once more, contentment filling her._

_If she hadn't been staring into the snow smothered sky at that exact moment, she would have missed the massive shadow of an owl as it passed overhead. Gylda frowned and squinted up at the swirling sky, not believing her eyes. Its screech shot across the garden from behind her. Gylda sat straight and put her arms protectively around her daughter. Sensing her tension, Aliana stopped talking and looked up to her mother, the strawberry forgotten in her hands. As Gylda craned her neck to see behind her, a large shadow disentangled itself from the snowstorm. Visibility beyond the force field was poor and Gylda could barely make out what was coming towards them. Cautiously, Gylda stood and turned so she could see the oncoming shadow properly. She slid Aliana behind her; she felt a strawberry juice soaked hand curl into the soft cloth of her skirts, tagging against them gently. Looking down she could see Aliana peeking out at the shadow from behind her._

_Her eyes strained as she watched the shadow begin to emerge into the light of the garden, away from the howling storm. Gingerly, it stepped through the hissing shield._

_"So this is your happy place." It grunted; its voice gravelly with disuse._

_It, she, was tall, almost as tall as Olaf. Her face was hard and careworn. Her features looked carved from stone. If Gylda had to guess, she'd place the Norn at middle age. A large tribal tattoo of a wolf mid leap crawled from her neck to her left cheek. Her storm grey eyes were hard and pitiless as they regarded her. The shape and colour familiar to Gylda only because she had seen a warmer version on her mate. She wore dark armor made from boiled leather. It was hard and unadorned save for an inlay of a flowering Iris on her breast. A tasseled leather skirt that reached her knees was the only concession she allowed for femininity. Under it, her legs were clad in hard leather. A thick dark braid hung carelessly over her right shoulder, a long downy feather woven into the leather cord that kept its mass in place. She could see a large painted greatsword hilt protruding over her shoulder._

_As the Norn with the wolf tattoo drew near to where Gylda stood, her breath became short as panic burned its way through her body. Pure unadulterated malice flowed off the woman in waves. Gylda was frozen by the intensity of it. It was only Aliana's small whimper from behind her that spurred her into action. With a shout to alert Olaf of the danger, she threw her hands out in a defensive position and called to the elemental powers that swirled within her. Desperately she summoned them to the fore, cursing her unwillingness to learn to harness them to their full capacity when she was younger. Now, when she was without weapon or hope, they would be the perfect weapon to protect Aliana. As it was, the most she could hope to do was overwhelm her enemy with sheer raw power. She called a ring of fire to shield them, pushing all the power she could muster into its walls. The Norn with the wolf tattoo barely hesitated. She stepped over the flaming mass as one would a crack on tiles. Gylda gasped and tried once more to call the power from within her. Aliana pressed her small face into her mother's skirts, too frightened to look. Gylda focused fire into her palms, nurtured it, and then flung it at the woman who walked so casually towards them._

_The woman raised a gauntleted hand._

_"Stop." One word, softly spoken, without inflection._

_In a moment, everything did. Nothing moved. The ball of fire was held suspended in its arc through the air. The snowflakes that were falling in frenzy paused. Even the gentle hum of the force field stopped. Time was held suspended._

_Gylda couldn't move. Her arms and hands were flung before her in the motion of casting. Every muscle, every motion, paused, while the woman resumed her journey forward. Hatred overwhelmed Gylda as the woman caught and held her gaze. In the sanctity of her head, Gylda screamed. The woman sidestepped the flaming ball and ignored Gylda as she bent down until she was eye level with Aliana. Gylda fought desperately against the spell holding her. Her muscles ached where she tried to force them into movement, a scream caught in her throat. She was powerless and could do nothing but watch as the woman gently pulled the child from behind her. At her touch the child could move again, she whimpered and cried and clutched at Gylda, but could do nothing to free herself from the woman's grasp. She picked Aliana up and cradled her in her arms. Aliana fought and cried out, her small arms reaching desperately for her mother._

_"No," she cried, her child's voice desperate, "No! Mamma, help. Help!"_

_Gylda's heart was breaking, she couldn't move. Her throat closed with emotion as she fought against the spell holding her._

_The woman stood, her tall body unfolding until she was at her full height, nearly two heads taller than Gylda. She looked down at her, her storm grey eyes cold as they stared into Gylda's._

_"I am taking her now," said the woman, her voice was like boulders falling on gravel. In the garden where time was suspended, they seemed to crack and echo._

_With that, she turned and made her way back from where she came. Aliana's green eyes were desperate and forlorn as they gazed at Gylda over the woman's shoulder. Gylda knew fear like no other. She couldn't stop her._

_At the edge of the force field a small shadow met the woman. She looked down at the figure and spoke. Gylda could not hear what was being said, only the bark of the woman's voice in reply to the beyond. The woman nodded once, and then stepped over the force field and into the snowstorm. The suspended snowflakes drifted slowly back into motion in her wake._

_Gylda watched the woman until she could no longer see the darkness of her receding shadow. A tear fought its way through the spell holding her and ran down her cheek._

_"You are dreaming." said Aliana._

_Gylda looked down. Her daughter stood next to her. Her teal tresses came only to her knee. She was standing with blood covered hands clasped behind her back, watching the disappearance of the woman and child. She was wearing a torn night dress that came to her knees. Blood covered her feet and calves. She looked up and the lump in Gylda's throat grew thicker. Blank vacant green eyes met hers. Whatever remained of her child was gone. There was something there, but not. It wore Aliana's skin, but not her spirit._

_"We don't have long, so listen. You're forgetting something. It's eating you, you just don't know it." her voice was a child's voice, but her words were far beyond her age, "You need to remember, and you don't have long. This will be the last time you see me. I only came as a courtesy to the child whose flesh I wear."_

_As she stared, one of Aliana's green orbs began to change; crystalline blue took root at its center and slowly invaded her iris until Gylda was staring into a green and blue orb. The thing that once was Aliana smiled._

_She touched Gylda gently on the leg, releasing her from the spell. Gylda fell to the floor, her muscles aching from holding the same position._

_"Good bye Gylda Thillian." said the child that wasn't. "Thank you for your sacrifice."_

_With that the child transformed into a brilliant white owl with feathers of crystal ice, its heterochromic eyes met hers. It screeched once, a sound that filled Gylda with great sorrow and pain, and then took off into the snow filled sky. Its massive wings beat against the frigid air, causing a gale of snow and ice._

Gylda woke. Her eyes burning with unshed tears. Desperately she fumbled in the cushioned embrace of the bed for her child, her arms tightened around her still waist as she pulled her to her, she held her close and breathed in the smell of wild things, old wood, and under that the baby fresh smell all infants carried. She pulled her closer and ran her hand through her crimson tresses. Once she felt reassured her child was safe she stood and kicked the pillows from her bath as she began to pace, she felt trapped, helpless. This place was oppressive, she could feel the endless rows of books pressing down on her until her breath came in short hollow gasps. In her arms, her child remained motionless, jostling occasionally with a slight clanking as Gylda's breath failed her.

Sensing her distress, Many Mother came to see what was troubling her. She no longer projected the fierce anger of earlier. Her skin and eyes had reverted to their dull glow. She grasped Gylda's hand as she passed her and held it with a hand that was without warmth, despite her fiery hair. The sound of the sand crushing against the barricade of the Monolith was all consuming. Even at the top of the tower, she could hear the rushing crush of it against the structure. On the tabletops, objects rattled and clunked as the sand threw itself against the structure.

"Shhh… Shhh… Come, child. It's not so bad. The first couple of decades are difficult, but I promise you it gets better."

Gylda was inconsolable. There was something, something important, that she had to remember. It was something to do with the quiet child in her arms. The more she picked at the blank space in her memory, the more desperate she became. Black spots flew in front of her eyes and her heart felt like it would beat its way out of her chest.

"There is something important, Many Mother,' she whispered, 'something I am forgetting. I can't… I can't remember. I keep trying but I am blank. It's like a scabbed wound that I keep picking at. What's wrong with me?"

Many Mother shook her head, the bright flame of her hair dimmed; darkening the Atrium. Gylda surrendered herself to the fear gnawing at her. She sunk to the hard floor. As a Norn, she had a natural immunity to cold climes, but this place was cold unlike anything she had known. It was cold like the Watcher was. It was ice and snow… snow, there was snow where she had been. Blood, snow, sadness and desperation, the fragment of memory chocked her. Beside her, Many Mother stood, her body was tense and fear shone from her jeweled eyes. She wrapped her arms around herself and watched helplessly as Gylda fought through the panic that clawed at her. Gylda folded into herself. There was something...something important.

She tightened her embrace around Aliana, the small child was unmoving against her chest - she rustled and clanked as her position was jostled closer to her mother. Many Mother's jeweled eyes dropped to the child in Gylda's arms and filled with pity. She tentatively took a step closer to Gylda, and, when she saw no adverse reaction, took another until she was within arms reach. Gently she put her small hands on either side of Gylda's face and lifted it until she could look her in the eyes.

"Please don't open this door," said Many Mother, "Please keep these things secret from yourself. There is a reason your mind is trying to forget, it needs time to come to terms with this situation. Please Gylda, please, just for a while, please, don't open that door inside."

"I can't leave it Many Mother," she said, "if I do it will tear me apart, there is something…"

"Oh, Burrik," muttered Many Mother, her voice broken, "Why do all our children have to be so like me?!"

With that Gylda felt a surge of power flow into her from her Many Mother's cool hands. She dropped the child in her arms and instead grasped her Many Mother's thin wrists, trying desperately to break their grasp. They were steel.

The atrium faded as Many Mother's eyes seemed to take the place of her world.

"Sleep." whispered Many Mother, her voice filled with command. So Gylda did.

She folded onto the floor, her head hitting its hard surface with a thump. Many Mother let her go when she was sure Gylda was asleep. Carefully she positioned a pillow under her head. Once she had made sure that Gylda was comfortable, she retrieved the doll that had fallen from her arms. Being careful not to disturb her, she wrapped Gylda's arms around the marionette. She pressed a kiss against her forehead then made her way to the pulsating crystal.

"You," she muttered to it, "have a very sick sense humour."


	9. Interim Part 1

_Olaf_

_Season of the Phoenix - 1304 AE_

Olaf swilled the dredges of the fruity beer in his stein. Around him there was a cacophony of sound. Patrons jostled and fought for their orders to be heard. The bar tender, a pubescent boy barely old enough to frequent the establishment, ran from one length of the worn oak bar to the other. He was clearly overwhelmed. His father, who owned Vanjir's Stead, sat like a king and entertained the revellers who found refuge from the raging storm. He was so engrossed with the story of a fabled Norn long gone that he paid no heed to his child's plight as the boy attempted to serve their customers.

Olaf sat with his back to the door, he was enamoured with the grog swirling and swishing in the silver stein in his immense grip. The curved chair he sat in provided him with reasonable camouflage against the lodgemaster's agitated customers. Across from him Valdi sat with his head rested on the heel of his hand. His face set in a scowl as he watched the bustling bar's patrons.

"You shouldn't have left him."

Valdi's voice was a rich baritone that rumbled from his chest. He had come a long way from the awkward teen that Olaf had first met when Endenvar fostered him. Despite the deepness of his voice, Valdi was still barely a man by Norn standards, exacerbated by the attempt at pale peach fuzz beard.

"I had no choice Valdi, you should have seen him with the Asuran. There was no way he would have left it."

"Yes," said Valdi, "He does have a habit of picking up strays doesn't he?"

Olaf sighed, ran his hand through his hair meeting the boys eyes.

"I wasn't referring to you and you know it."

"From what it sounds like, the Asuran and I have a lot in common. Both of us were left to die and both of us were found by Endenvar. From what you said, the Asuran was locked in a shell of a golem and left in a place where no one would find it. How is that different from my plight as a child Olaf?"

"For one, Endenvar knew you would survive. That child won't."

"And why should that stop him from trying to save it?!" He roared as his fist hit the table with a bang that resounded through the lodgehouse. Momentarily, the sound of the other patrons abated as they turned to their table, their faces set in a mask of interest. Valdi was breathing deeply, his chest heaving as he fought the emotions washing over him. When the others saw that he wasn't going to start a fight, they turned back to their beverages and the clamour resumed once more. Before Valdi's fist had hit the table, Olaf had removed his grog from the path of his wrath, and other than that, he made no move to calm the cantankerous Norn.

He took a deep draught of his beer. It was light and tasted slightly of lemons. He stared down at it with interest. Nero, the lodgemaster, obviously had illusions of grandeur.

"How can you just sit like that Olaf, like you don't have a care in the world?"

"Technically I don't Valdi, one way or another, my life will be forfeit. Even if those maligned freaks forgive me for what I did to Gylda, they will wear my guts for garters after they find out what I tried to do to Aliana. I'm dead Valdi."

Valdi's chest heaved, once , twice, before he settled down once more in the curved oak chair, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. He twined his fingers together before resting his face against them. He regarded Olaf with a solemn expression. His eyes were hard and masked whatever emotion that had gripped him before. Olaf knew how sensitive the boy was about discarded children, and how he was especially attuned to anything that concerned his foster father. It had been years since Endenvar had taken the boy in. They had found him bound hand and foot in Shamans-Rookery, slavers had taken him from his family with the intent to sell him in Bloodtide Coast. It was four years before he could speak of his ordeal. When they had asked of his family, all Valdi would say was that they were gone. Even now, in the flickering of the candle light, Olaf could see the ringed scars left on his wrists from the shackles that had bound him.

"You still shouldn't have left him, Olaf. He is the closest thing to family you have. He would follow you through the Fissure of Woe and you know it."

Guilt stabbed though Olaf. He shouldn't have left him. He knew that, but… he didn't want to endanger his friend more than he already had. His eyes left the intent gaze of the younger Norn and wondered the room. The lodge was packed to capacity. Mostly the patrons comprised of Norn, but Olaf could see one or two humans, and even a couple of Charr huddled at the rough oak tables that clustered outward from the bar. He craned his neck to see behind him, and could just make out the opened door. Through it a thick mist slowly seeped into the gloom of the lodge. Olaf wasn't sure when it had appeared, when he had left Endenvar, the clouds that had provided so spectacular a storm had begun to break up, letting the sun shine through to the wetted landscape.

"… have a bad feeling…" Valdi's voice whispered across the edge of his hearing.

Olaf couldn't take his eyes off the door. A sense of foreboding tingled up his spine; desperately he tried to see through the thick mist. He couldn't say what it was that slowly trickled its way through the room, only that it filled him with dread. Taking his attention from the doorway, Olaf regarded the other customers. None seemed to notice the feeling of malicious intent that crawled up his spine. He placed his stein on the table and eased his hand under it to grasp the heavy pommel of his greatsword.

"Valdi," he whispered, his voice hoarse with strain, "do you feel that?"

The boy paused and tilted his head to one side as if listening intently to something unheard by Olaf.

"Aberrations of the Matriarchy?" he asked.

"No, something else, but it's a similar feeling."

He turned once more to where Valdi was sitting and folded himself deeper into the winged chair, hiding as much of himself in shadow as possible.

"Watch the door." He whispered, not understanding why he felt the need to keep his voice down in the loud clamor of the room, but not questioning it either. He drew the hilt of his sword up onto his lap. His eyes fixed intently on Valdi as he regarded the door. Harsh shadows fell across Valdi's angular face in the flickering light of the candles. He folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. His posture was casual but his pale amber eyes were intent and seemingly glowed from within.

"There is someone coming." His whispered to Olaf, his voice hollow as his eyes followed the entrance of the new customer. "I'm not sure who, or what, it is."

His amber eyes followed the stranger until it sat behind Olaf. His eyes grew large as they flickered to Olaf's.

"She is sitting behind you."

Olaf could feel her, her power was chocking him. It broiled around him like a broth. His hand, where it held his sword, trembled. He could feel his bear pounding at his flesh for release to attack this stranger. Desperately he kept it in check. The last time he had released his bear had been an unmitigated disaster.

She cleared her throat.

"You have not met me yet, dearie, but I thought now was as good a time as any."

Her accent was cultured and her tone clipped. Olaf felt it like fingernails across a chalk board.

"You may call me," she paused for effect, "Madam Strange."

His eyes flew to Valdi's, the boy was reaching under the table for his weapon. Around them the other patrons went about their business, not seeing or hearing what was happening at their table. Olaf's heart pounded against his rib cage. There was something… wrong, about this woman.

"The reason we are meeting like this is twofold." Said the woman cheerfully, Olaf could just make out the rustle of her skirts over the noise of the bar. He heard the tinkling of a spoon on a saucers edge and a slow slurp as the woman sipped from her cup. His grip tightened on his sword. He would only have one chance at her, he suspected, after that she would definitely have them at a disadvantage.

"The first was to introduce myself, which I have," he could hear the smile in her voice. "and the second is to tell you that you have about oh…" There was another rustle as the woman pulled a watch from the folds of her skirt, "... twenty minutes to save your friend before the hypothermia sets in. Tick Tock, Laffy."


	10. Interim Part 2

_Olaf_

_Season of the Phoenix - 1304 AE_

Fear overwhelmed him. It was unnatural in its intensity. It blinded him and chocked him. Across from him, he could see Valdi felt the same. His amber eyes had grown large as he clawed at his throat. Olaf thumped his head against the table, hoping that the pain of it would rid him of the spell she had obviously thrown over them. The first hit did nothing, but the third or fourth hit had enough intensity to break the spell. He surged to his feet and heaved his greatsword over his head, intent on cleaving the woman in half.

As a warrior, Olaf was especially conscious of the movement of time in battle. For him a split second meant the difference between life and death. With the excess adrenalin pumping through his system, his senses went into hyperdrive. Perception was widened, and every detail of every battle became infinitely important. Time became measured in the slide of muscle and bone and in the ache of his limbs as they pushed themselves beyond limit and imagination; it was measured in the rumbling of his voice as he shouted his defense. It was in his in his periphery as he watched Valdi glide to his feet in an easy motion, bow already nocked with a broad poison tipped shaft. Everything moved in slow motion as his field of vision widened and his brain processed every detail of what was happening around them. He judged the conditions for his attack and knew he had scant minutes before Nero, the lodgemaster, intervened. In his heart of hearts he knew this would be a bad thing. Whoever sat behind him would have no qualms killing witnesses. How he knew this, he didn't know. He could feel it - the coiled malice emanating from her. He knew, not guessed, knew, that she looking for an excuse to exact violence upon them. Why else would she come and taunt them like this?

He breathed out, focused his attention on the glide of his movement as he swung around. His greatsword, Xanthia's Prize, cut through the air with precision and grace. Muscles bulged, swelled, tore and twisted as he forced more speed into his movement. The adrenalin he forced into his system was both a blessing and a curse. It could make him stronger, faster, more aware, and, as the battle wore on, his system would be flooded with more of it. The price would come in the morning when his body would present the bill for the misuse he had forced it to endure. Gylda always used to say that nothing in life was free. She was right of course. The thought bought a pang of guilt along with a shot of sadness. With adrenalin pumping through him and his bear pounding against his metaphysical flesh, he was reminded too much of the night she left him. As he spun, his chair fell to the floor with a clatter; he kicked it out of his way with enough force to disturb the table next to his. As Xanthia's Prize arced above him, he moved into a warrior's stance. His body braced itself for the meeting of flesh and steel. A poisoned tipped arrow brushed past him on its journey to subdue Madam Strange. Valdi would have already nocked another by the time it took him cleave her in half.

He felt the impact of Xanthia's Prize as it sliced through the hard wood of the chair she was sitting in. A shudder moved through him as the greatsword split the wood. He ignored the reverberation and focused his attention solely on the creature before him - she was fast. How she had avoided the trajectory of the greatsword was beyond him. Grey eyes roamed her frame while another arrow glided past him. Almost nonchalantly she snatched it out the air and tossed it to the floor.  
>At best, Olaf could describe her as womanoid. The term fit her only by the barest definition. There were aspects of womanhood about her person, but as a whole she was so other that sex didn't factor in. She wore a dress with skirts that looked like the decaying petals of a wetland flower. They shone like an oil slick in the flickering lights of the candles. Her flesh was the colour and texture of bracken left to rot in a stagnant swamp. What he assumed was her hair was twiglike in appearance and had dead or dying leaves clinging to their pointed tips. It was her eyes, however, that reinforced the sense of otherness. They were completely black. Not as black as night, or as black as pitch. No, those had shading and variants. Her eyes were the absence of light; they were cold and unyielding darkness. They awoke primal fear in Olaf. It wasn't the panicked oppression she had woven over them earlier, but the blind, hollow fear of the dark that all creatures that walked in light experienced when faced with its suffocating immensity.<p>

The arrow she had caught hit the wooden floor with a clank. Her bough-like fingers moved to a painted bone china cup she held clasped in her other hand, her gaze unwavering as it held his. Slowly she took a sip of its contents, bringing into relief the intricate imagery that enfolded its surface.  
>Insult was added to injury. Valdi roared. His angered tones echoed through the crowded lodge, alerting the other patrons to their situation. The sound of it was enough to break his gaze from the Sylvari's. He swung around in time to watch Valdi's flesh melt off to reveal the amber gaze of his wolf form. Fur the colour of melted butter rustled softly to a preternatural wind. His maw opened and displayed a plethora of sharpened teeth. Clawed hands bit into the hard wood of the floor. His muscles rippled as he bought himself into a low crouch, a deep growl emanating from his chest.<p>

Faster than he could draw his next breath, the tables crowding around theirs emptied. Patrons and employees alike made way for the upcoming confrontation. Money exchanged hands and bets were made on the outcome of what they perceived to be a bar fight. Nero sat straighter in his chair. He pulled his giant hammer across his knees in case he needed to intervene. His gaze sought that of his son behind the bar. Reading the look, the boy disengaged himself from the customers surrounding him and climbed into a safe box built into the bar for just such an occasion. The click of the box's inner lock rang through the too quiet room.  
>Olaf felt sweat trickle down the clammy flesh of his back and neck. His arms shook slightly as he pulled his sword from the remnants of the winged chair. Valdi leapt next to Olaf, crouched as he was his head brushed against Olaf's ribcage.<p>

She cleared her throat.

"Oh child," she whispered, her clipped voice on a breath, "Look what you have done." She gestured to the patrons standing quietly around them. The movement of her twiglike arms encompassed all of them. Her black eyes glinted in the candle light.

"Why, after this I surely can't be held responsible for my actions…"

She smiled revealing the dark cavern of her mouth. Olaf clasped Valdi's shoulder. He felt the muscles tighten. Grey eyes met wolfen amber

.  
>"She has hostages." He whispered to the boy, hoping that he had enough presence of mind to heed her previous gesture to the other patrons. Valdi grunted, but didn't relax his stance. Olaf raised his eyes from Valdi's crouched form and met the malevolent glare of the Sylvari. He tightened his grip on the young Norn's shoulder.<p>

"We tried to kill her and that failed." He whispered to the crouched Norn, "Time for option two."

"No." growled the boy, "I'll keep her busy. Get. Endenvar."

He didn't wait for a response from Olaf, and instead he literally sprang into action. His wiry form flew through the air towards the Sylvari; his sharp claws at the ready to rend her flesh. There was a savage beauty in his movement. It was coiled muscle and sudden violence given motion. As he flew towards her, Olaf hefted Xanthia's prize and sprinted to the open door. The last thing he saw before he fled the scene was the meeting of claw and her fibrous flesh. As he passed through the door, he absently noticed a black and white Charr picking its teeth with a curved dagger. Briefly their eyes met before he sped off. She smiled, row upon row of pointed teeth were revealed in the movement. Olaf shuddered, but continued onwards.

Without the deluge of rain hindering him, Olaf made good time. It helped that he didn't have a pack weighing him down. He entered a balanced stance and moved swiftly to where he had left his brother in arms. He encountered no foes while journeying, and for that he was grateful. With Valdi's leap a sense of urgency began to take route in Olaf's heart. A sense of urgency that had nothing to do with the twin bone minions that followed closely in his wake. They were just behind him; Olaf could smell the putrid scent of their decaying flesh. Their clawed paws kicked up sodden soil as they bounded after him. Desperately he kept his gaze ahead, not wanting to meet the hollowed caverns of their eyes.

Over the pitter patter of their clawed feet, Olaf heard the crashing of something larger moving behind him. He tried to pick up speed, not wanting to be held back by whatever it was. The sounds of it thrashing through the underbrush grew louder. Olaf's breath hitched, not daring to turn back he continued headlong into the mist. The mist soon devolved into a thick fog as he grew closer to Wolf's Shrine and his mother's grave. It curled around him with damp fingers and made his previously dry clothes stick to his sweating frame. His greatsword, harnessed to his back, rubbed and chafed against him with every step and his knees ached from running on the uneven terrain. The tall pines, already sparse, grew sparser. Collecting his resolve, Olaf broke through the scraggly trees. In the clearing before Wolfspaw Shrine, the fog had thickened and made visibility almost nonexistent. Without the comfort of growing things looming in the shadows, the clearing was desolate, empty and eerie. He paused in an attempt to gain an idea of where he was. He knew logically that the shrine was just ahead of him, but with the fog swirling about him, he didn't want to take the risk of losing his way. Madame Strange had said that Endenvar had twenty minutes. Olaf couldn't judge accurately, but he suspected that that was more than twenty minutes ago.

Gasping to regain his breath a bearings, Olaf scanned his surroundings. With the fog pressing down on him like an oppressive blanket, it was difficult to know where he was. He was cocooned in its icy grip. It was so thick he couldn't even make out the soaring peaks of the mountains that surrounded this area of Lorner's Pass. He closed his eyes and attempted to regain control of his breathing. Breathing deeply of the cool wet air, he slowly cleared his mind of the fog that cluttered it. Images of Endenvar's broken body filled it. Using his willpower he banished the image. They had been through greater adventures than that small necrotic Sylvari could ever hope to match. They had survived worse, and with their trip to the Matriarchy they would survive worse still. The thought, though dark, bought him a measure of comfort. Finally his heart calmed in his chest, and his breath became even. Taking the panic and fear that had gripped him after meeting the Sylvari, Olaf mentally stuffed it in a box called Problems for Later, and focused on finding Endenvar. He took a deep breath and looked for one of the scraggly Pines that grew scantily about his area. When he found one, he ran his large hand over its surface looking for the telltale sign of moss. His hand brushed against its springy green surface. It grew high on the tree and along its thin trunk and was therefore a good indicator of direction. The side it grew on indicated north. Olaf positioned himself in a southerly direction and began jogging. He felt the need to run, but knew that if he made just one misstep it would cost him his direction.

Sound echoed hollowly with each step, the thick grass the blanketed the ground muffled his passage, but each breath he took resounded in the inclosing fog that surrounded him. Dully he could hear the shuffling, shifting movements of the minions behind him, and further still, the clamoring beast that followed him through the scant trees thundered laboriously in his wake. As he neared the shrine another sound was added the the soft susurration that enveloped him. An angry hissing filled his ears along with the panicked yelps of what he assumed to be the pups of Wolfpaw Shrine. The rancid stench of burning fuel and hair filled his nostrils. Coughing slightly, he moved towards where he assumed the smell and sound where coming from. Soon a gentle red glow penetrated the fog at varying intervals. Olaf ran towards the light, unsheathing his greatsword as he went.

The sight that met his eyes when he reached the shrine was enough to give him pause. The Asuran, small, malnourished, and a baby to boot, had jimmied a flamethrower out of the remnants of the golem that had held it captive. Its large eyes were bright, its blue tuft of hair slick with sweat, and its gums were bared in a crazed grin. Olaf was taken aback by the sheer amount of ferocity seeping from its small body. It was using the makeshift device to hold off the mother wolf and her cubs from Endenvar's prone body.

The matron of Wolfpaw Shrine was larger than the normal wolves of Lorner's and imbued with power from the shrine. Her thick grey fur was mottled and burned in more than one place from her encounter with the Asuran. She had attacked the small one thinking that she would be a bite before she could gorge herself on the tasty Norn behind her, little did she know that the child carried a devise of splendid pain hidden behind her back. She was crouched just short of the flames that spewed a fountain of pain. When the nozzle inevitably became too hot for the babe to handle, she would dart forward snapping her toothy maw, her pups close on her heals. Bright blue eyes would glare and a shot of hissing flames would fill the air once more. The smell of burnt flesh, burning fossil fuels, and blood filled the Shrines hallowed grounds. The Asuran trembled with exhaustion. Her hands had already been scrapped and cut before they found her, now blistering burns were added to the plethora of wounds that were interwoven up her small arms. Her face was grim, hard, and nothing like what you would expect of a child. A baby. Eyes that should show no comprehension were filled with a quiet intelligence, a flaring of knowledge. Olaf was completely taken aback watching her fend off the wolves. It was like watching a fight between a human and an ogre. The Asuran was so small that even with the added height of her upright ears; she was barely as tall as the wolf pups. The matron, already larger than normal, completely dwarfed it. Another burst of fire lit the air; it spluttered and then went out. Fear flittered across the Asuran face before salivating jaws descended on it. At the sight, adrenalin flooded Olaf's already overwrote system. He flew across the intervening space to interfere with the wolf's meal, roaring a warning.

Endenvar didn't move.


	11. Consequence

_Mistress Wolf_

_Season of the Phoenix - 1304 AE_

She slid her blade from the Norn's side and placed her sandaled foot on his stomach and pushed slightly. He folded over, the massive hammer that provided so great a threat falling heavily to the muddied ground. Wolf regarded his fallen frame with detached interest. He had fought to the last, and even then he had almost won. A worthy opponent. She turned from him and let her gaze scan the carnage that surrounded her. Madam Strange had been thorough in her destruction as always.

She rubbed her paw against the leathery skin of her left shoulder. The cold and the mist always snuck into her bones and caused her to ache. She drew a deep breath that tasted of blood and death before picking her way across the broken bodies of Vanjir's Stead denizens towards Madam Strange. As far as she could tell there was only one survivor.

Madam Strange saddled the wooden safety box, her hands held tautly against its side. Her black eyes glinted as she surged necrotic power against it. Wards blossomed around the box, white hot and shining as they repelled the dark magic. Madam Strange let loose a frustrated cry and slammed her fist against the box.

"Mistress Wolf, I find this most disagreeable!"

"I can see that Madam Strange."

Blood from the corpses saturated the terrain and mingled with the wet earth. It made squelching sounds as she made her way across it. The lodge and its outhouses burned cheerfully in the background. The roar of the fire bellowed across the landscape. Soon the bodies that littered its front yard would join in its merriment. Mistress Wolf liked fire.

"Have you tried sweet-talking it Madam Strange."

She heard a muffled snort from the box followed by a bang as Madam Strange hit its rough surface again.

"I am going to murder this little bast-"

"Language."

Madam Strange cleared her throat and ran her hands down the fullness of her skirt. The decaying leaves on her head stood in disarray. She ran a calming hand across them in an attempt to regain order amongst their chaotic mass.

"I beg your pardon, Mistress Wolf. What I meant to say is; I will help facilitate the movement of this dear child's soul into Grenth's loving embrace."

The last was said with vehemence and was preceded by a slap against the warded timber of the box. Madam Strange had been worrying at its wooden surface for a while now. Mistress Wolf had a great deal of appreciation for its maker. Obviously the Norn who had crafted it had planned for every eventuality.

"He is Norn, Madam Strange; they have a different set of deities."

"Oh yes. The animals. That explains so much."

She glared at the box.

"Mistress Wolf, do you think your talents as an arsonist will make any difference against it."

There was a muffled thump as the young Norn started. He couldn't be comfortable in that box. It was obviously made for a child, and the boy had outgrown it long ago. As it was, he had contorted his body to fit in its space. That being said, the box was so large that straddling it as she was Madam Strange's knees just reached its edge, and her feet hung suspended far off the muddied ground. The front of the safe box was riddled with the remnants of the bar, left over from when Mistress Wolf tore it from the safety of its embrace.

She regarded it, and then walked around it. Occasionally she tapped against it and listened to the hollow sounds it produced. She could hear the boy squirming out of reach. Madam Strange hopped off its bulk and moved to the hammer wielding Norn Mistress Wolf had just dispatched. Mistress Wolf hunkered down and examined the box closely. She ran the scarred paw of her left arm against its rough length. Wards bloomed in its path, runic symbols danced across its surface. They meant nothing to Mistress Wolf. She grunted, and then did the same on the opposite side.

"Fire won't work against this, Madam Strange. Whoever built it had planned for every outcome. Nothing you or I could do to it would make any difference unless the boy opened up for us. It's an amazing piece of work. It's a pity we killed the craftsman."

Madam Strange sniffed disdainfully and fiddled with the corpse. She poured necrotic energy over it in green tinged black waves. Under her malevolent gaze it began to twitch then stand. Sweat, or a form of it, broke out across her forehead and her hands trembled then contorted as more power flowed between her fingers and into the corpse of the Norn. Mistress Wolf could feel goosebumps break out across her skin as the Madam Strange's power filled the clearing. While invisible, it felt thicker than the mist and smelt worse than the death and smoke that surrounded them. Madam Strange's black eyes became bottomless, and her bracken mouth opened in a grimace. Mistress Wolf took a step back, and then another. She didn't understand what it was that Madam Strange was trying to accomplish, but knew whatever it was it would be deadly. She crouched down behind the safe box and tucked her tail between her legs. Its fluffy white tip tickled against her nose. Being amoral as she was, Mistress Wolf rarely regarded anything as good or evil, but since she had taken service with Madam Strange her outlook on good and evil had definitely changed. Mistress Wolf provided a service. She would kill anyone - man, woman or child – so long as she got paid. She felt nothing for the act or the victims she left in her path. All that meant anything to her was the gold she received for the service she provided. Madam Strange was different. She got … pleasure… from the act of murder or torture. It was almost sexual in its intensity. When her victims were dead and the cries of their begging still, she would try to raise them so that she could do it again. It sickened Mistress Wolf. She might not have much in the way of honour, but she still believed in having respect for the dead.

The corpse was fresh enough to look lifelike. It staggered forward like a puppet having its strings pulled. Mistress Wolf risked a glance at Madam Strange, she was shaking, her hands outstretched before her with a thin line of green tinged power connecting her heart to the corpse in front of her. Her fingers twitched and froze according to the movements of copse. Her black gaze was relentless and utterly focused.

It stumbled over its slain brethren until it stood in front of the safe box. Its head dropped and its empty gaze fell on the box. The wards that were only briefly disturbed by Madam Strange and her tampering lit up like the midday sun. They spun around its surface with increasing speed until Mistress Wolf could no longer differentiate between the individual runes. They were a white blur. Yelping she jumped away from the box. It burned.

"Son." said the corpse, his lips moving along with Madam Strange's. "Open the box, boy. I've chased them away."

Gall raised in her throat, the skin of her maw scrunched up as she regarded the abomination and its wielder with disgust.

"Father?" a muffled voice sounded from the box. "You died," a sob, "I heard you die."

"I pretended" said Madam Strange/Nero. "They are gone now. I chased them away. It's ok now. I'll protect you."

On padded feet, Mistress Wolf walked away from the scene. Her heart constricted in her chest as she listened to the consoling tones of the corpse to the boy in the box. Madam Strange played dirty. Once some distance was put between her and the scene, she stood with her back to it. Her burnt hand rubbed over the cloth of her tunic where her heart would be. She heard the murmur of voices awhile longer before the lock of the safe box clicked. There was an anguished cry that was cut off suddenly before Madam Strange joined her once more.

They both stood with their back to Vanjir's Stead, the crackling of the fire at their backs. Madam Strange was exhausted. Her bracken like flesh had grey tinges of exhaustion interwoven amongst the browns and green tones. Her twig like arms were wrapped about her middle and her black eyes had lost their glint. She breathed in hollow gasps. She placed her hand on the scarred tissue of Mistress Wolf's left arm.

"There can be no witnesses" she said.

"Why? Are you frightened that your siblings will discover your transgressions?"

"More like cousins… And yes. They can never know of my existence."

"Very well."

"You are angry?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Did you use the corpse of the boy's father to kill him?"

"Do you really want to know?" she asked. Her hand tightened on Mistress Wolf's arm and her eyes lifting to meet hers.

"No."

"Good. Let's take care of the corpses then be on our way."

"Where to?"

"Why, the Lost Owl Shrine of course. Where else?"

**Author's Note.**

_The summary used to describe what happens in the story doesn't fit ... yet. If any of you would be so kind as to write a new one for me and pop it into my inbox I would be extremely grateful. I know its awfully cheeky to ask, but I am desperate._

_Thank you kindly_

_KittiWithKatana_


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